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THE 


STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


BY 

HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN, 

AUTHOR  OF  “THE  IMPROVISATORE,”  “WONDER  STORIES  TOLD 

FOR  CHILDREN,”  ETC. 


NO  IV  FIRST  TRANSLA  TED  INTO  ENGLISH 

anl 


CONTAINING  CHAPTERS  ADDITIONAL  TO  THOSE  PUBLISHED  IN  THE  DANISH  EDITION 
■KINGING  THE  NARRATIVE  DOWN  TO  THE  ODENSE  FESTIVAL  OF  1867. 


StutliocV  <£Dttiou. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
(fcfce  XPliVicr^iDc  £ambrit>0e 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  bj 
Hurd  and  Houghton. 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


- »■ - 

THE  Autobiography  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen 
now  presented  to  the  English  speaking  public  is 
not  a  work  prepared  and  published  at  one  time,  but  it 
is  consecutive  and  complete. 

In  1846,  on  the  occasion  of  a  uniform  collected  edition 
of  his  writings  to  be  published  in  Germany,  Andersen 
wrote  a  sketch  of  his  life  under  the  title  “  Das  Marchen 
meines  Lebens.”  This  was  translated  by  Mrs.  Howitt 
and  published  in  England,  with  the  name,  “  The  True 
Story  of  My  Life,”  and  has  been  abbreviated  at  different 
times  to  accompany  various  editions  of  his  Stories  and 
of  “  The  Improvisatore.” 

In  1855,  when  a  uniform  Danish  edition  of  his  writings 
was  published,  Andersen  rewrote  his  autobiography,  ex¬ 
panding  the  material  given  in  the  sketch,  but  frequently 
using  passages  identical  with  that,  and  bringing  the  nar¬ 
rative  to  the  date  at  which  he  wrote.  This  enlarged 
autobiography  has  not  before  been  translated  into  Eng¬ 
lish,  and  the  present  translator,  following  Andersen’s 
plan  with  his  own  sketch,  has  incorporated  Mrs.  Howitt’s 
translation  when  it  was  available,  but  added  all  that  was 
new  in  the  Danish  edition. 

A  third  time,  prompted  by  a  similar  occasion,  the  au¬ 
tobiography  has  been  extended.  Upon  the  proposition 
of  the  American  Publishers  to  bring  out,  by  arrangement 
with  the  author,  a  uniform  edition  in  English  of  Ander¬ 
sen’s  writings,  including  the  autobiography,  the  author 


iv 


AD  VER  TISEMENT. 


set  about  bringing  that  work  to  the  date  of  1867,  termi¬ 
nating  it  with  an  account  of  the  great  Festival  at  Odense, 
which  he  looks  upon  as  the  crowning  honor  of  his  life. 
He  sent  his  manuscript  to  America  for  translation  and 
special  publication  in  connection  with  this  edition. 

The  Publishers  congratulate  themselves  and  the  pub¬ 
lic  that  their  undertaking  has  thus  drawn  from  the  eminent 
author  a  further  account  of  a  life  which  Andersen  fondly 
calls  “  A  Wonder  Story.” 


/ 


CONTENTS 


♦ 


CHAPTER  I. 


April,  1805  —  September,  1819. 


* 

TAQA 


Birth  in  Odense. — Description  of  Birth-room.  —  My  Father.  —  A 
Family  Festival  at  the  House  of  Correction.  —  Odense  Sights.  — 

The  Spaniards  in  Funen.  —  My  Father’s  Mother.  —  The  Lunatic 
Asylum.  —  My  Weak-minded  Grandfather.  —  My  Introduction  to 
Learning  at  an  A  B  C  School.  —  My  Teacher,  Mr.  Carsten. — 
Gleaning  in  the  Harvest-field.  —  My  First  Visit  to  the  Theatre. — 

My  Father’s  Reading.  —  His  Enlistment  in  the  Army.  —  His  Death. 

—  My  Introduction  to  Madame  Bunkeflod. —  My  First  Dramatic 
Work.  —  I  try  to  learn  a  Trade.  —  My  Mother’s  Second  Marriage. 

•  —  Our  House  by  the  Monk-mill’s  Gate.  —  I  am  noticed  for  my  Voice 
and  Dramatic  Action.  —  Introduction  to  Prince  Christian.  —  My 
Confirmation.  —  “  The  Red  Shoes.” —  I  wish  to  seek  my  Fortune. 

—  The  Printer  Iversen  gives  me  a  Letter  to  a  Copenhagen  Celeb¬ 

rity  whom  he  does  not  know.  —  I  leave  Odense  and  set  out  for  the 
Capital . I-24 


CHAPTER  II. 

September,  1819  —  October,  1822. 

Arrival  at  Copenhagen.  —  My  First  Ramble  to  the  Theatre.  —  I  call 
upon  Madame  Schall.  —  Then  upon  the  Manager  of  the  Theatre. — 

“  Paul  and  Virginia.”  —  In  Search  of  Employment.  —  A  Call  upon 
Siboni,  and  upon  Weyse.  —  Siboni’s  Character.  —  A  Patron  is  found 
in  the  Poet  Guldberg.  —  I  lodge  innocently  in  a  Suspicious  House. 

—  My  First  Appearance  on  the  Stage.  —  New  Year’s  Day  and  an 
Omen.  —  At  the  Singing-school.  —  The  Colbjornsons.  —  Professor 
Thiele’s  Encouragement.  —  Urban  Jiirgensen’s  Mother.  —  My  First 
Tragedy,  ;‘Afsol.”  —  Admiral  Wulff.  —  Conference  Councilor  Col¬ 
lin.  —  I  am  to  be  sent  to  School . 25-44 


CHAPTER  III. 

October,  1822 — December,  1828. 

School  late  at  Slagelse. — The  Rector. —  Mr.  Bastholm’s  Good  Ad¬ 
vice. —  My  Grandfather’s  Death.  —  His  Riches  with  Wings.  —  A 


CONTENTS. 


VI 


PAGB 

Visit  to  Odense.  —  School-days.  —  Antvorskov  and  its  Legends.  — 

Soro  and  Ingemann’s  House.  —  Petit  and  Carl  Bagger.  —  An  Exe¬ 
cution  at  Skjelskjor.  —  My  Diary.  —  I  remove  with  the  Rector  to 
Helsingor. — The  Rector’s  Secret  Commendation  of  me.  —  My 
Vacations  in  Copenhagen. —  Poetic  Efforts.  —  Adam  Oehlenschla- 
ger.  —  I  remove  to  Copenhagen.  —  My  Little  Garret-room.  —  Par¬ 
odies  on  my  Former  Poetry.  —  Heiberg’s  “  Flying  Post.”  —  Exam¬ 
ination  for  Title  of  Student.  —  My  First  Book,  “  A  Journey  on 
Foot.”  —  Paludan  Muller.  —  My  First  Vaudeville. — My  Second 
Academical  Examination.  —  H.  C.  Orsted.  —  My  First  Volume  of 
,  Foe  ms  .  .  ' •  45-^6 


CHAPTER  IV. 

1830  —  April,  1833. 

Travelling  in  Jutland.  —  A  Visit  to  Iversen’s  Widow.  —  A  Love  Affair. 

—  A  Morbid  Turn  to  my  Thoughts.  —  My  Sensitiveness-  —  A  Trip 
into  Germany.  —  Tieck.  —  Chamisso.  —  “  Shadow  Pictures.”  — 
Criticism.  —  Texts  for  Operas. — Acquaintance  made  with  J.  P. 

E.  Hartmann. — The  “Bride  of  Lammermoor.”  —  “Kenilworth,” 
for  Weyse — Molbech  and  the  “  Monthly  Review.” —  Henrik  Hertz. 

—  “Letters  from  the  Dead.”  —  I  ask  a  Stipend  from  King  Fred¬ 
erick  VI. —  I  receive  a  Stipend  for  travelling. — Madame  Lassoe 

—  Edward  Collin  .  .......  67-83 

CHAPTER  V. 

April  —  September,  1833. 

Hamburg.  —  Cassel.  —  Spohr.  —  Frankfort.  —  The  Rhine.  —  Arrival 
at  Paris. — The  Italian  Opera.  —  Adolph  Nourrit.  —  Mademoiselle 
Mars.  —  Danish  Comrades.  —  Versailles.  —  Paul  Duport,  the  Vau¬ 
deville-poet. —  Cherubini. — Henrik  Heine  introduces  himself  to 
me.  —  Victor  Hugo. —  Letters  from  Home. —  The  Unveiling  of 
Napoleon’s  Statue  in  the  Place  Vendome.  —  Louis  Philippe.  —  The 
Festival. —  P.  A.  Heiberg.  —  Brondsted. — I  set  out  for  Switzer¬ 
land.  —  Purari  at  Geneva.  —  Chillon.  —  Le  Locle.  —  The  Jiirgen- 
sen  Family  and  my  Home  with  them.  —  My  New  Poem,  “  Agnete 
and  the  Merman.”  —  Departure  from  Le  Locle  .  .  .83-98 

CHAPTER  VI. 

September,  1833  —  August,  1834. 

*y  the  Simplon  into  Italy.  — Milan.  — Genoa.  —  The  Arsenal.  —  The 
Journey  from  Genoa  to  Carrara.  —  Pisa.  —  Our  Small-minded 
Guide. —  Florence  and  its  Galleries. — The  Miseries  of  Travelling 
in  Italy.  —  The  Water-fall  at  Terni.  —  Rome.  —  The  Second 
Funeral  of  Raphael.  —  Thorwaldsen.  —  Albert  Kiichler.  — A  Ram- 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

ble  among  the  Mountains.  —  Dulcamara  and  Bandits.  —  Anotner 
Excursion  to  Tivoli.  —  Artist-life  in  Rome.  —  Christmas  Eve  and 
its  Festival.  —  Home  Opinions  cf  “  Agnete.” —  Hertz  and  I  become 
Friends.  —  I  travel  with  him  to  Naples.  —  Excursion  up  Vesuvius. 

—  Suggestion  of  “  The  Improvisatore.”  —  Easter  at  Rome.  — » 
Wicusseux.  — Venice. —  I  recross  the  Alps.  —  Munich. — Schelling. 

— -  l'assport  Experience.  —  Salzburg.  —  Golling  Fall.  — Molk  Mon¬ 
astery.  —  Vienna.  —  Strauss.  —  Madame  Von  Weissenthurn.  — 
Castelli.  —  Journey  to  Prague.  —  A  Bohemian  Library  vanishes. — 

“  The  Improvisatore,”  its  origin,  composition,  and  publication  99-131 

CHAPTER  VII. 

1835  —  1838. 

A  Change  in  Public  Opinion  of  my  Work.  —  Hauch  the  Poet.  —  I  pre¬ 
sent  my  Book  to  Prince  Christian.  —  German  Appreciation.  —  Eng¬ 
lish  Translation  by  Mary  Howitt.  —  Other  Translations  in  Various 
Languages.  —  I  bring  out  the  First  Part  of  my  “  Wonder  Stories.” 

—  “  O.  T.”  —  “  Only  a  Fiddler.”  —  Soren  Kierkegaard.  —  Hauch’s 
Criticism.  —  My  First  Visit  to  Sweden.  —  Meeting  with  Fredrika 
Bremer.  —  Stockholm  —  Scandinavian  Fellowship.  —  Increased 
Productiveness  in  Literature.  —  The  Collins.  —  Insignificant  Re¬ 
turns  for  Literary  Work  in  Denmark.  —  Count  Rantzau-Breitenburg. 

—  I  receive  a  Pension  from  Government  ....  132-14* 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

1839  —  1841. 

New  Confidence.  —  The  Part  played  by  the  Theatre  in  Danish  Life. 

—  My  Success  and  Disappointment.  —  “The  Invisible  at  Sprogdu” 

—  “  The  Mulatto.”  —  Death  of  Frederick  VI.  — A  Swedish  Ovation. 

_ “  The  Picture-book  without  Pictures.”  —  I  discover  Friends 

when  I  am  about  to  leave  Denmark.  — En  route  for  Home.  —  Men¬ 
delssohn  at  Leipsic.  —  At  Munich  with  Holst.  —  Kaulbach.  —  Once 
more  in  Rome.  —  Satire  at  Home.  —  With  Holst  to  Naples.  —  The 
Foiitane  del  Trevi.  —  On  the  Mediterranean.  —  A  Month  at  Athens. 

—  “  Ahasuerus.”  —  In  the  Archipelago.  —  Smyrna.  —  Constantino¬ 
ple. —  The  Voyage  up  the  Danube.  — The  Return  Home. — “A 
Poet’s  Bazaar.”  —  The  Spirit  of  the  Criticism  directed  against  me. 

—  Misunderstanding  and  Envy  .  ....  146-176 

CHAPTER  IX. 

1841— March,  1844. 

Politics  and  Poetry.  —  Life  in  Manor-houses.  —  Winter  Life  in  Co¬ 
penhagen.  —  The  Collin  Family.  —  Oehlenschlager.  —  Thorwald- 

177-18S 


sen 


VU1 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  X. 

1842  —  1843. 

VACS 

“  The  Bird  in  the  Pear-tree.”  —  Weyse.  —  Journey  to  Paris.  — ■  Rantzau- 
Breitenburg.  —  With  Speckter  at  Hamburg.  —  Cologne  —  Brussels. 

—  Paris.  —  Marmier.  —  Victor  Hugo.  —  Martinez  de  la  Rosa.  — 
Lamartine.  —  Dumas.  —  Rachel.  —  Alfred  de  Vigny.  —  David.  — 
Madame  Reybaud.  —  Balzac.  —  Heine.  —  “  Only  a  Fiddler  ”  in  Real 
Life.  —  The  Rhine.  —  Frieligrath.  —  Bonn.  —  Moritz  Arndt.  — 
Geibel.  —  Foreign  Appreciation  of  my  Writings.  —  Mr.  Boas. — 

My  Wonder  Stories,  their  origin  and  reception  .  .  .  186-206 

CHAPTER  XI. 

1840 — 1844. 

fenny  Lind.  —  At  Breitenburg.  —  Goethe’s  Family. — Weimar. — 

The  Birthday  of  the  Grand  Duke.  —  Chancellor  von  Muller. — 
Leipsic.  —  The  Schumanns.  —  Dresden.  —  Retsch.  —  The  Serres 
at  Maxen.  —  The  Countess  Hahn-Hahn.  —  Berlin.  —  Savigny. — 
Bettina.  —  Tieck.  —  I  am  invited  by  the  King  and  Queen  of  Den¬ 
mark  to  visit  them  at  Fohr. — The  Journey.  —  The  Reception  at 
Wyck. —  The  Ilalligs. — The  King’s  Kindness.  —  My  Stipend  in¬ 
creased. —  The  Duchess  of  Augustenburg  ....  207-227 

CHAPTER  XII. 

1844  —  July,  1846. 

*  Fortune’s  Flower.”  —  Heiberg’s  Criticism.  —  “  The  King  dreams.” 

—  “  'J’he  New  Lying-in  Room.”  —  A  Mystification.  —  Death  of 

Collin’s  Wife.  —  The  Festival  at  Skanderborg - Aarhuus.  —  Trav¬ 

elling.  —  A  New  Journey.  —  At  Glorup.  —  Odense.  —  Henriette 
Hauck.  —  Gravenstein.  —  At  Hamburg  with  Speckter.  — The  Liv¬ 
ing  Fairy  Tale.  —  At  Oldenburg.  —  Mosen.  —  Mayer.  —  I  read  my 
Stories  in  the  Grand  Duke's  Circle.  —  Berlin. —  Rauch.  —  The 
Brothers  Grimm.  —  Tieck.  —  A  Christmas-tree  with  Jenny  Lind. 

—  Madame  Birch  Pfeiffer.  —  The  Royal  Family.  —  I  read  my  Stories 
to  them.  —  At  Weimar.  —  Richter.  —  Jenny  Lind.  —  Auerbach.  — 
With  Beaulieu  to  Jena.  —  Hase.  —  Leipsic.  —  Brockhaus.  —  Gade. 

—  At  Dresden. —  The  Royal  Family.  —  At  Prague. — Vienna. — 
Castelli. —  To  Trieste.  —  Ancona.  —  The  Road  to  Rome. —  In 
Rome  for  the  Third  Time.  —  New  Love  for  Sculpture.  —  Jerichau. 

—  Kolberg.  —  At  Naples. — The  Heat  drives  me  to  Sorrento. — 

I  write  “  Das  Marchen  meines  Lebens.”  —  Josephsen.  —  At 
Naples  again.  —  To  Marseilles.  —  Ole  Bull.  —  Reboul  at  Nismes.  — 
Journey  toward  the  Pyrenees.  —  The  Terrible  Heat.  —  Perpignan. 

—  The  Baths  of  Vernet.  — The  Close  of  this  Section  of  my  Life  228-274 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

July,  1846  —  December,  1847. 

VAOB 

From  Vernet  to  Switzerland.  —  Avignon.  —  By  Diligence  to  Lyons. 

—  Freiburg.  —  Berne.  —  Basle. —  Home  by  Strasburg  and  Ham¬ 
burg. —  Hartmann’s  Opera  with  my  Text,  “Little  Christine.”  — 
Orsted’s  Words  respecting  Poetry. — Interview  with  the  King. — 

I  set  out  for  England.  —  To  Holland.  —  Amsterdam.  —  Hospitable 
Reception.  —  Harlem.  —  Leyden.  —  The  Hague.  —  Fanny  Hensel’s 
Widowed  Husband.  —  A  Reception  at  the  Hague.  —  To  England 
by  Rotterdam.  —  Arrival.  —  First  Impressions  of  London.  —  I 
enter  Society  at  Lord  Palmerston’s.  —  Chevalier  Bunsen.  —  Etiquette 
in  London.  —  A  Visit  to  Jenny  Lind.  —  “  La  Somnambula.”  —  Tag- 
lioni.  —  Lady  Morgan.  —  At  Lady  Blessington’s.  —  Count  d’Orsay. 

—  Charles  Dickens.  —  Mary  Howitt.  —  Frieligrath.  —  To  the  How- 
itt’s  at  Clapton  —  High  Life  ajid  Low  Life  in  London.  — Westminster 
Abbey.  —  A  London  Election.  — To  Edinburgh  by  York.  —  Ram¬ 
bles  in  Edinburgh.  —  Dr.  Simpson.  —  Heriot’s  Hospital  —  Lord 
Jeffrey.  —  With  Baron  Hambro  on  an  Excursion.  —  Loch  Katrine.  — 
Loch  Lomond.  —  Dumbarton.  —  I  reluctantly  cut  short  my  Trip.  — 

The  Travels  of  a  Cane.  —  Return  to  London.  —  A  Visit  to  Charles 
Dickens.  —  Return  Home  by  Ostend  and  Hamburg.  —  Maiice  at 
Home.  —  I  dedicate  some  Stories  to  Dickens.  —  “  Ahasuerus.” 

—  Oehlenschlager’s  Criticism . 275—33 * 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

January,  1848  —  March,  1851. 

Death  of  King  Christian  VIII.  —  Schleswick-Holstein  War.  —  Letter 
to  the  London  “  Literary  Gazette  ”  in  Defense  of  Denmark.  —  The 
Enthusiasm  of  Young  Soldiers. — At  Glorup  in  Camp.  —  The 
Swedes  in  Funen.  —  Intervention  for  a  Prisoner.  —  “The  Two 
Baronesses.”  —  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  Danish  Theatre. — 
Fredrika  Bremer’s  Visit  to  Copenhagen.  —  Lieutenant  Ulrich. — 

A  Visit  to  Sweden.  —  Gothaborg.  —  Trolhatta.  —  Stockholm.  — 

The  “  Literary  Society.”  —  Introduction  to  King  Oscar.  —  Visit  to 
the  Royal  Family.  —  Madame  Carlen.  —  To  Dalarne.  —  Travelling 
in  Sweden.  —  Fahlun.  —  The  Prophecy  of  the  Straws.  —  Upsala.  — 
Return  to  Stockholm. —  The  Romance  of  Count  Saltza.  —  At 

Linkoping.  —  Motala.  —  By  Gothaborg  to  Denmark - Publication 

>f  “  In  Sweden.”  —  English  Criticism.  —  Death  of  Oehlenschlager. 

—  The  Copenhagen  Theatre.  —  The  Casino.  —  Ole  Luckoie.  —  H. 

C.  Orsted  and  “Spirit  in  Nature”  —  Peace.  —  Death  of  Madame 
Hartmann. — Death  of  H.  C.  Orsted  ....  332-38* 


X 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

1851  —  April  18^5. 

VAGI 

A  Longing  for  the  Country.  —  To  Prague.  —  A  Simmer  at  Glorup. — 

A  Soldier  Festival.  —  A  Visit  to  the  Seat  of  the  Late  War.  —  To 
the  Serres  at  Maxen.  —  The  Bourbons  for  Travelling  Companions. 

—  The  Title  of  Professor.  —  At  Weimar.  —  Liszt  and  Wagner.  — 
Munich.  —  With  the  Royal  Family  at  their  Country-seat.  —  To 
Switzerland.  —  Return  Home.  —  “The  Elder  Mother.”  —  A  Visit 
to  Ingemann’s. —  At  Glorup.  —  With  Michael  Drewsen  at  Silke- 
borg. — A  Collected  Edition  of  my  Writings.  —  I  work  at  this 
Book  for  an  Introduction.  —  A  Feast  given  me  by  Students. — 
New  Journeyings.  —  With  Jenny  Lind  and  her  Husband  in  Vienna. 

—  To  Italy.  —  Another  Visit  to  the  Bavarian  King  Max.  — Home 
by  Way  of  Eisenach. — At  Work  upon  my  Collected  Writings. — 

“  A  Village  Story.”  —  “  Eventyr  ”  and  “  HistorierT  —  Conclusion 

of  “  The  Story  of  my  Life  ”  at  this  Date  ....  383-409 

CONTINUATION. 

April,  1855,  to  December,  1867. 

1855.  —  Greeting  to  American  Readers.  —  A  Visit  to  Ingemann  and 
his  Wife.  —  The  Nis  Story.  —  Visit  at  Maxen. — Letter  to  Inge- 

:  mann.  —  At  Munich.  —  Miss  Seebach.  —  How  I  obtain  Means  for 
travelling.  —  Edgar  Collin.  —  In  Switzerland.  —  Auf  Der  Mauer. 

—  Wagner  in  Zurich.  —  Spohr  at  Cassel.  —  At  Weimar.  —  “A  Vil¬ 
lage  Story  ” . 410-418 

1856.  — Correspondence  with  Ingemann.  —  “  To  be  or  not  to  be  ”  418-420 

1857.  — A  Visit  to  the  Queen  Dowager.  —  A  Visit  to  England  at 
Dickens’s  Invitation.  —  To  Gadshill. —  Dramatic  Performance  for 
Douglas  Jerrold’s  Family.  —  Dickens’s  Unfailing  Good-nature. — 
Leave-taking.  — To  Maxen.  —  A  Letter  to  Dickens.  —  The  Unveil¬ 
ing  of  Goethe’s  and  Schiller’s  Statues  at  Weimar.  —  Liszt’s  Music. 

—  Home  by  Hamburg.  —  Letter  from  Ingemann  .  .  420-429 

1858.  —  I  read  my  Stories  before  the  Mechanics’  Association.  —  “The 

Marsh  King’s  Daughter.”  —  Letter  from  Ingemann.  —  Death  of 
Henriette  Wulff.  —  Verses  on  her  Death  ....  429-435 

1859.  —  “Little  Christine.” — A  Visit  at  Frederick  Castle.  —  I  read 

a  New  Story  to  the  King.  —  A  Visit  to  Old  North  Wosborg. — 
Hamlet’s  Grave.  —  From  Aalborg  to  Skagen.  —  The  Bishop  of 
Borglum.  —  A  Haunted  House.  —  Two  Ghostly  Experiences. — 
Skagen. — Jutland  Hospitality.  —  At  Ingemann’s  — My  Pension  is 
increased.  —  Christmas  Eve  at  Basnos  ....  436-451 


CONTENTS . 


XI 

rAGB 

1860.  —  A  Statue  to  H.  C.  Orsted.  —  Spring  Travels.  —  In  Holstein. 

—  On  my  Way  to  Rome.  —  At  Munich.  —  The  Passion  Play  at 

Oberammergau.  —  To  Le  Locle.  —  Watchmaking.  —  In  Geneva.  — 
Heiberg’s  Death,  y- 1  give  up  Rome  and  spend  my  Christmas  ac 
Basnos  .  ...  451-455 

1861.  — Travelling  again  with  Jonas  Collin.  —  To  Nice  and  Genoa.  — 

At  Rome.  —  A  Visit  to  Kiichler.  —  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. — I 
make  his  Acquaintance.  —  A  Festival. —  Bjornson’s  Verses  tome. — 

The  Sculptor  Story.  —  Mrs.  Browning.  —  Her  Verses  in  my  Honor. 

—  The  Journey  Northward.  —  At  Cavour’s  Funeral  in  Turin.—; 
Milan.  —  In  Switzerland.  —  A  Festival  at  Einsiedeln. — At  Home. 

—  News  of  Old  Collin’s  Death.  —  The  Funeral.  —  A  New  Volume 

of  Stories . 459-468 

1862.  —  Letters  from  Ingemann,  the  King,  and  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. 

—  The  Four-leaved  Clover.  —  Death  of  Ingemann.  —  Letter  to  his 
Widow.  —  The  Funeral.  —  My  Parting  Words. — A  Visit  to  Soro- 

—  Christian  Molbech.  —  The  Celebration  at  Flensborg.  —  In  Switz¬ 

erland  at  Brunnen.  —  Montreux.  —  A  Poem  suggested  by  the 
Place.  —  Jonas  Collin  and  I  set  out  lor  Spain. — A  Flood  at  Barce¬ 
lona. —  V  alencia.  —  Cartagena.  —  To  Malaga. — The  Cemetery  at 
Malaga.  —  A  Strange  Misunderstanding.  —  Granada.  — The  Queen’s 
Entrance.  — The  Alhambra.  —  At  Gibraltar.  —  A  Visit  to  Sir  Drum¬ 
mond  Hay  at  Tangiers.  —  Cadiz.  —  Seville.  —  Cordova.  —  To  Mad¬ 
rid. —  The  Spanish  Capital.  —  Burgos  — Biarritz.  —  New  Year’s 
Eve  in  Bordeaux . 468-489 

1863.  —  Gounod’s  “  Fausv.”  —  Poictiers.  —  To  Paris.  —  A  Scandina¬ 
vian  Festival  at  Bjornson’s  Suggestion  —  At  Home  again  writing  out 
my  Notes  for  “  In  Spain.” —  Death  of  King  Frederick  VII.  — The 

Funeral  Obsequies.  —  War  breaks  out.  —  “A  Song  of  Trust  ”  489-49/ 

6 

1864.  —  The  War  Enthusiasm.  —  The  Prussian  Successes.  —  A 

Dreary  Time.  —  Depression,  and  work  to  throw  it  off.  —  A  Visit  to 
Madame  Ingemann .  497~5°3 

1865.  —  “The  Spaniards  were  here.” — Summer  Journeying  amongst 
Friends.  —  Journey  to  Sweden.  —  Stockholm.  —  The  Henriques.  — 
Visit  to  the  Royal  Family’s  Country-seat.  —  “Thou.” — Fredrika 
Bremer. — Beskow’s  Party.  —  At  the  University  Town  of  Lund. — 

A  Welcome.  —  Return  Home.  —  With  the  Royal  Family  at  Fre- 
densborg.  —  Bournonville.  —  Waiting  for  the  Time  to  visit  Portu¬ 
gal  .  503-5*4 

1866.  —  An  Invitation  to  Amsterdam. — Journey  to  Holland. — The 
Brothers  Brandt  at  Amsterdam.  —  The  Theatre.  —  The  Zoological 


CONTENTS 


•  % 

Xll 

FAGB 

Gardens.  —  Verhulst.  —  Gade’s  Works.  —  Social  Distinctions.  — 

Miss  Kleine  Gartmann  — Ten  Kate.  —  Leyden.  —  A  Drive  to  the 
Mouth  of  the  Rhine.  —  The  Hague.  —  By  Brussels  to  Paris.  — The 
Danish  Crown  Prince.  —  To  Vincennes  with  him^ — My  Birthday 
and  the  Souvenirs  sent  me.  —  Christine  Nilsson.  —  Rossini. — A 
Perilous  Journey  across  a  Street.  —  Frolich. —  I  receive  the  Order 
of  Notre  Dame  de  Gaudeloupe.  —  In  Bordeaux.  —  Ristori. —  En 
route  for  Lisbon.  —  Reception  by  the  O’Neills.  —  Castilho.  —  At 
Carlos  O’Neill’s  Villa.  —  Setubal.  — Coimbra.  —  Return  to  Lisbon. 

—  An  Experience  at  Sea.  —  In  Bordeaux. — To  Hamburg.  —  At 
Odense. —  Carl  Bloch. —  Madame  Ingemann.  —  My  Home  in 
Copenhagen.  — The  Seven  Days  of  the  Week  with  my  Friends.  514-544 

1867.  —  Readings  of  my  Stories.  —  My  Birthday.  —  To  Paris  for  the 
Great  Exhibition.  —  The  Danish  Representation  —  Robert  Wall.  — 

In  Le  Locle.  —  At  Home.  —  A  Second  Visit  to  Paris  to  study  for 
“The  Dryad.”  —  French  Editors’  Excursion  to  Copenhagen. — 
Home  by  Baden  Baden.  —  In  Odense.  —  I  am  invited  by  the  Town 
to  receive  an  Honorary  Citizenship.  —  The  Celebration.  —  The 
Speeches  and  Scenes  in  the  Town  Hall.  —  A  fulfillment  of  Prophecy. 

—  Lahii  s  Institution.  —  Conclusion  ...  .  544-569 


* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


— ♦— 

CHAPTER  I. 

MY  life  is  a  lovely  story,  happy  and  full  of  incident.  If, 
when  I  was  a  boy,  and  went  forth  into  the  world  poor 
and  friendless,  a  good  fairy  had  met  me  and  said,  “  Choose 
now  thy  own  course  through  life,  and  the  object  for  which 
thou  wilt  strive,  and  then,  according  to  the  development  of 
thy  mind,  and  as  reason  requires,  I  will  guide  and  defend  thee 
to  its  attainment,”  my  fate  could  not,  even  then,  have  been  di¬ 
rected  more  happily,  more  prudently,  or  better.  The  history 
of  my  life  will  say  to  the  world  what  it  says  to  me,  —  There  is 
a  loving  God,  who  directs  all  things  for  the  best. 

In  the  year  1805  there  lived  at  Odense,  in  a  small  mean 
room,  a  young  married  couple,  who  were  extremely  attached 
to  each  other  ;  he  was  a  shoemaker,  scarcely  twenty-two  years 
old,  a  man  of  a  richly  gifted  and  truly  poetical  mind.  His 
wife,  a  few  years  older  than  himself,  was  ignorant  of  life  and 
of  the  world,  but  possessed  a  heart  full  of  love.  The  young 
man  had  himself  made  his  shoemaking  bench,  and  the  bed¬ 
stead  with  which  he  began  housekeeping ;  this  bedstead  he 
had  made  out  of  the  wooden  frame  which  had  borne  only  a 
short  time  before  the  coffin  of  the  deceased  Count  Trampe,  as 
he  lay  in  state,  and  the  remnants  of  the  black  cloth  on  the 
wood-work  kept  the  fact  still  in  remembrance. 

Instead  of  a  noble  corpse,  surrounded  by  crape  and  wax- 
lights,  here  lay,  on  the  second  of  April,  1805,  a  living  and 
weeping  child,  —  that  was  myself,  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 
During  the  first  day  of  my  existence  my  father  is  said  to  have 
lat  by  the  bed  and  read  aloud  in  Holberg,  but  I  cried  all  the 

1 


2  !  THE  STORY  CF  AIY  LIFE. 

time.  “  Wilt  thou  go  to  sleep,  or  listen  quietly  ?  ”  it  is  re 
ported  that  my  father  asked  in  joke ;  but  I  still  cried  on  ;  and 
even  in  the  church,  when  I  was  taken  to  be  baptized,  I  cried 
so  loudly  that  the  preacher,  who  was  a  passionate  man,  said, 
“  The  young  one  screams  like  a  cat !  ”  which  words  my  mother 
never  forgot.  A  poor  emigrant,  Gomar,  who  stood  as  god¬ 
father,  consoled  her  in  the  mean  time  by  saying  that  the 
louder  I  cried  as  a  child,  all  the  more  beautifully  should  I 
sing  when  I  grew  older. 

Our  little  room,  which  was  almost  filled  with  the  shoemak¬ 
er’s  bench,  the  bed,  and  my  crib,  was  the  abode  of  my  child 
hood  ;  the  walls,  however,  were  covered  with  pictures,  and 
over  the  work-bench  was  a  cupboard  containing  books  and 
songs;  the  little  kitchen  was  full  of  shining  plates  and  metal 
pans,  and  by  means  of  a  ladder  it  was  possible  to  go  out  on 
the  roof,  where,  in  the  gutters  between  it  and  the  neighbor’s 
house,  there  stood  a  great  chest  filled  with  soil,  my  mother’s 
sole  garden,  and  where  she  grew  her  vegetables.  In  my  story 
of  the  “  Snow  Queen  ’’  that  garden  still  blooms. 

I  was  the  only  child,  and  was  extremely  spoiled,  but  I  con¬ 
tinually  heard  from  my  mother  how  very  much  happier  I  was 
than  she  had  been,  and  that  I  was  brought  up  like  a  noble¬ 
man’s  child.  She,  as  a  child,  had  been  driven  out  by  her  par¬ 
ents  to  beg,  and  once  when  she  was  not  able  to  do  it,  she  had 
sat  for  a  whole  day  under  a  bridge  and  wept.  I  have  drawn 
her  character  in  two  different  aspects,  —  in  old  Dominica,  in 
the  “  Improvisatore,”  and  in  the  mother  of  Christian,  in  “  Only 
a  Fiddler.” 

My  father  gratified  me  in  all  my  wishes.  I  possessed  his 
whole  heart  ;  he  lived  for  me.  On  Sundavs  he  made  me 
perspective  glasses,  theatres,  and  pictures  which  could  be 
changed  ;  he  read  to  me  from  Holberg’s  plays  and  the  “Ara¬ 
bian  Tales  ;  ”  it  was  only  in  such  moments  as  these  that  I  can 
remember  to  have  seen  him  really  cheerful,  for  he  never  felt 
himself  happy  in  his  life  and  as  a  handicraftsman.  His  par¬ 
ents  had  been  country  people  in  good  circumstances,  but  upon 
whom  many  misfortunes  had  fallen  :  the  cattle  had  died  ;  the 
farm  house  had  been  burned  down;  and  lastly,  the  husband 
had  lost  his  reason.  On  this  the  wife  had  removed  with  him 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


3 


to  Odense,  and  there  put  her  son,  whose  mind  was  full  of  intel 
ligence,  apprentice  to  a  shoemaker  ;  it  could  not  be  otherwise, 
although  it  was  his  ardent  wish  to  attend  the  grammar  school 
where  he  might  learn  Latin.  A  few  well-to-do  citizens  had  at 
one  time  spoken  of  this,  of  clubbing  together  to  raise  a  suffi¬ 
cient  sum  to  pay  for  his  board  and  education,  and  thus  giving 
him  a  start  in  life ;  but  it  never  went  beyond  words.  My 
poor  father  saw  his  dearest  wish  unfulfilled  ;  and  he  never 
lost  the  remembrance  of  it.  I  recollect  that  once,  as  a  child 
I  saw  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  it  was .  when  a  youth  from  the 
grammar  school  came  to  our  house  to  be  measured  for  a  new 
pair  of  boots,  and  showed  us  his  books  and  told  us  what  he 
learned. 

“  That  was  the  path  upon  which  I  ought  to  have  gone  !  ” 
said  my  father,  kissed  me  passionately,  and  was  silent  the 
whole  evening. 

He  very  seldom  associated  with  his  equals.  He  went  out 
into  the  woods  on  Sundays,  when  he  took  me  with  him  ;  he 
did  not  talk  much  when  he  was  out,  but  would  sit  silently, 
sunk  in  deep  thought,  whilst  I  ran  about  and  strung  straw¬ 
berries  on  a  bent,  or  bound  garlands.  Only  twice  in  the  year, 
and  that  in  the  month  of  May,  when  the  woods  were  arrayed 
in  their  earliest  green,  did  my  mother  go  with  us,  and  then 
she  wore  a  cotton  gown,  which  she  put  on  only  on  these  oc¬ 
casions  and  when  she  partook  of  the  Lord’s  Supper,  and 
which,  as  long  as  I  can  remember,  was  her  holiday  gown. 
She  always  took  home  with  her  from  the  wood  a  great  many 
fresh  beech  boughs,  which  were  then  planted  behind  the 
polished  stone.  Later  in  the  year  sprigs  of  St.  John’s  wort 
were  stuck  into  the  chinks  of  the  beams,  and  we  considered 
their  growth  as  omens  whether  our  lives  would  be  long  or 
shoit.  Green  branches  and  pictures  ornamented  our  little 
room,  which  my  mother  always  kept  neat  and  clean ;  she  took 
great  pride  in  always  having  the  bed  linen  and  the  curtains 
very  white. 

One  of  my  first  recollections,  although  very  slight  in  itself, 
had  for  me  a  good  deal  of  importance,  from  the  power  by 
which  the  fancy  of  a  child  impressed  it  upon  my  soul ;  it  was 
t  family  festival,  and  can  you  guess  where  ?  In  that  vei^ 

I  ... 


4 


THE  STORY  0?  MY  L  IFE. 


place  in  Odense,  in  that  house  which  I  had  always  looked  on 
with  fear  and  trembling,  just  as  boys  in  Paris  may  have  looked 
at  the  Bastile  —  in  the  Odense  house  of  correction. 

My  parents  were  acquainted  with  the  jailer,  who  invited 
them  to  a  family  dinner,  and  I  was  to  go  with  them.  I  was  at 
that  time  still  so  small  that  I  was  carried  when  we  returned 
home. 

The  House  of  Correction  was  for  me  a  great  store-house  of 
stories  about  robbers  and  thieves  :  often  I  had  stood,  but  al¬ 
ways  at  a  safe  distance,  and  listened  to  the  singing  of  the  men 
within  and  of  the  women  spinning  at  their  wheels. 

I  went  with  my  parents  to  the  jailer’s  ;  the  heavy  iron- 
bolted  gate  was  opened  and  again  locked  with  the  key  from 
the  rattling  bunch  ;  we  mounted  a  steep  staircase  —  we  ate 
and  drank,  and  two  of  the  prisoners  waited  at  the  table  ;  they 
could  not  induce  me  to  taste  of  anything,  the  sweetest  things 
I  pushed  away  :  my  mother  told  them  I  was  sick,  and  I  was 
laid  on  a  bed,  where  I  heard  the  spinning-wheels  humming 
near  by  and  merry  singing,  whether  in  my  own  fancy  or  in 
reality,  I  cannot  tell  ;  but  I  know  that  I  was  afraid,  and  was 
kept  on  the  stretch  all  the  time;  and  yet  I  was  in  a  pleasant 
humor,  making  up  stories  of  how  I  had  entered  a  castle  full 
of  robbers.  Late  in  the  night  my  parents  went  home,  carry¬ 
ing  me,  the  rain,  for  it  was  rough  weather,  dashing  against 
my  face. 

Odense  was  in  my  childhood  quite  another  town  from  what 
it  is  now,  when  it  has  shot  ahead  of  Copenhagen,  with  its  water 
carried  through  the  town  ^nd  I  know  not  what  else  !  Then  it 
was  a  hundred  years  behind  the  times  ;  many  customs  and 
manners  prevailed  which  long  since  disappeared  from  the 
capital.  When  the  guilds  removed  their  signs,  they  went  in 
procession  with  flying  banners  and  with  lemons  dressed  in 
ribbons  stuck  on  their  swords.  A  harlequin  with  bells  and  a 
wooden  sword  ran  at  the  head  ;  one  of  them,  an  old  fellow, 
Hans  Struh,  made  a  great  hit  by  his  merry  chatter  and  his 
face,  which  was  painted  black,  except  the  nose,  that  kept  its 
genuine  red  color.  My  mother  was  so  pleased  with  him  that 
she  tried  to  find  out  if  he  was  in  any  way  related  to  us,  but  I 
remember  very  well  that  I,  with  all  the  pride  of  an  aristocrat 
protested  against  any  relationship  with  the  “  fool.” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


5 


The  first  Monday  in  Lent  the  butchers  used  to  lead  through 
the  streets  a  fat  ox,  adorned  with  wreaths  of  flowers  and 
ridden  by  a  boy  in  a  white  shirt  and  wearing  wings. 

The  sailors  also  passed  through  the  streets  with  music  and 
flags  and  streamers  flying ;  two  of  the  boldest  ended  by  wrest¬ 
ling  on  a  plank  placed  between  two  boats,  and  the  one  that 
did  not  tumble  into  the  water  was  the  hero. 

But  what  especially  was  fixed  in  my  memory,  and  is  very  often 
revived  by  being  spoken  about,  was  the  stay  of  the  Spaniards 
in  Funen  in  1808.  Denmark  was  in  alliance  with  Napoleon, 
who  had  declared  war  against  Sweden,  and  before  anybody 
was  aware  of  it,  a  French  army  and  Spanish  auxiliary  troops, 
under  command  of  Marshal  Bernadotte,  Prince  of  Pontecorvo, 
entered  Funen  in  order  to  pass  over  into  Sweden.  I  was  at 
that  time  not  more  than  three  years  old,  but  I  remember  very 
well  those  dark-brown  men  bustling  in  the  streets,  and  the 
cannon  that  were  fired  in  the  market-place  and  before  the 
bishop’s  residence  ;  I  saw  the  foreign  soldiers  stretching  them¬ 
selves  on  the  sidewalks  and  on  bundles  of  straw  in  the  half- 
burned  St.  John’s  Church.  The  castle  of  Kolding  was  burnt, 
and  Pontecorvo  came  to  Odense,  where  his  wife  and  his  son 
Oscar  were  staying.  The  school-houses  all  about  were  changed 
into  guard-rooms,  and  the  mass  was  celebrated  under  the 
large  trees  in  the  fields  and  on  the  road.  The  French  sol¬ 
diers  were  said  to  be  haughty  and  arrogant,  the  Spanish  good- 
natured  and  friendly  ;  a  fierce  hatred  existed  between  them ; 
the  poor  Spaniards  excited  most  interest. 

A  Spanish  soldier*  one  day  took  me  up  in  his  arms  and 
pressed  against  my  lips  a  silvery  image,  which  he  carried  on 
his  breast.  I  remember  that  my  mother  became  angry  be¬ 
cause,  as  she  said,  it  was  something  Catholic,  but  I  was 
pleased  with  the  image,  and  the  foreign  soldier  danced  with 
me,  kissed  me,  and  shed  tears  ;  he  had,  perhaps,  children  him¬ 
self  at  home.  I  saw  one  of  his  comrades  carried  to  execution 
for  having  killed  a  Frenchman.  Many  years  afterward,  in 
remembrance  of  that,  I  wrote  my  little  poem,  “  The  Soldier,” 
which,  translated  into  German  by  Chamisso,  has  become  popu¬ 
lar,  and  is  found  in  German  “Soldier  Songs”  as  an  original 
German  song. 


6 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Quite  as  lively  as  the  impression  of  the  Spaniards  was  a 
later  event,  in  my  sixth  year,  namely,  the  great  comet  of  :8n  • 
my  mother  told  me  that  it  would  destroy  the  earth,  01  that 
other  horrible  things  threatened  us,  to  be  found  in  the  book  of 
“  the  prophecies  of  Sibylla.”  I  listened  to  all  these  supersti 
tious  stories  and  fully  believed  them.  With  my  mother  and 
some  of  the  neighboring  women  I  stood  in  St.  Canut’s  church¬ 
yard  and  looked  at  the  frightful  and  mighty  fire-ball  with  its 
large,  shining  tail. 

All  talked  about  the  signs  of  evil  and  the  day  of  doom. 
My  father  joined  us,  but  he  was  not  of  the  others’  opinion  at 
all,  and  gave  them  a  correct  and  sound  explanation  ;  then  my 
mother  sighed,  the  women  shook  their  heads,  my  father 
laughed  and  went  away.  I  caught  the  idea  that  my  fathei 
was  not  of  our  faith,  and  that  threw  me  into  a  great  fright ! 
In  the  evening  my  mother  and  my  old  grandmother  talked 
together,  and  I  do  not  know  how  she  explained  it ;  but  I  sat 
in  her  lap,  looked  into  her  mild  eyes,  and  expected  every  mo¬ 
ment  that  the  comet  would  rush  down,  and  the  day  of  judg¬ 
ment  come. 

The  mother  of  my  father  came  daily  to  our  house,  were  it 
only  for  a  moment,  in  order  to  see  her  little  grandson.  I  was 
her  joy  and  her  delight.  She  was  a  quiet  and  most  amiable 
old  woman,  with  mild  blue  eyes  and  a  fine  figure,  which  life 
had  severely  tried.  From  having  been  the  wife  of  a  country¬ 
man  in  easy  circumstances  she  had  now  fallen  into  great 
poverty,  and  dwelt  with  her  feeble-minded  husband  in  a  little 
house,  which  was  the  last,  poor  remains  of  their  property.  I 
never  saw  her  shed  a  tear  ;  but  it  made  all  the  deeper  im¬ 
pression  upon  me  when  she  quietly  sighed,  and  told  me  about 
her  own  mother’s  mother,  —  how  she  had  been  a  rich,  r  oble 
lady,  in  the  city  of  Cassel,  and  that  she  had  married  a  “  com¬ 
edy  player,” —  that  was  as  she  expressed  it,  —  and  run  away 
from  parents  and  home,  for  all  of  which  her  posterity  had  now 
to  do  penance.  I  never  can  recollect  that  I  heard  her  mention 
the  family  name  of  her  grandmother ;  but  her  own  maiden 
name  was  Nommesen.  She  was  employed  to  take  care  of  the 
garden  belonging  to  a  lunatic  asylum,  and  every  Sunday  even¬ 
ing  she  brought  us  some  flowers,  which  they  gave  her  permit 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


7 


lion  to  take  home  with  her.  These  flowers  adorned  my 
mother’s  cupboard  ;  but  still  they  were  mine,  and  to  me  it 
was  allowed  to  put  them  in  the  glass  of  water.  How  great 
was  this  pleasure  !  She  brought  them  all  to  me  ;  she  loved 
me  with  her  whole  soul.  I  knew  it,  and  I  understood  it. 

She  burned,  twice  in  the  year,  the  green  rubbish  of  the  gar¬ 
den  ;  on  such  occasions  she  took  me  with  her  to  the  asylum, 
and  I  lay  upon  the  great  heaps  of  green  leaves  and  pea-straw 
I  had  many  flowers  to  play  with,  and  —  which  was  a  circum¬ 
stance  upon  which  I  set  great  importance  —  I  had  here  better 
food  to  eat  than  I  could  expect  at  home. 

All  such  patients  as  were  harmless  were  permitted  to  go 
freely  about  the  court ;  they  often  came  to  us  in  the  garden, 
and  with  curiosity  and  terror  I  listened  to  them  and  followed 
them  about ;  nay,  I  even  ventured  so  far  as  to  go  with  the 
attendants  to  those  who  were  raving  mad.  A  long  passage 
led  to  their  cells.  On  one  occasion,  when  the  attendants  were 
out  of  the  way,  I  lay  down  upon  the  floor,  and  peeped  through 
the  crack  of  the  door  into  one  of  these  cells.  I  saw  within  a 
lady  almost  naked,  lying  on  her  straw  bed ;  her  hair  hung 
down  over  her  shoulders,  and  she  sang  with  a  very  beautiful 
voice.  All  at  once  she  sprang  up,  and  threw  herself  against 
the  door  where  I  lay ;  the  little  valve  through  which  she 
received  her  food  burst  open  ;  she  stared  down  upon  me,  and 
stretched  out  her  long  arm  toward  me.  I  screamed  for  terror 
—  I  felt  the  tips  of  her  fingers  touching  my  clothes  —  I  was 
half  dead  when  the  attendant  came  ;  and  even  in  later  years 
that  sight  and  that  feeling  remained  within  my  soul. 

Close  beside  the  place  where  the  leaves  were  burned  the 
poor  old  women  had  their  spinning-room.  I  often  went  in 
there,  and  was  very  soon  a  favorite.  When  with  these  people, 
I  found  myself  possessed  of  an  eloquence  which  filled  them 
with  astonishment.  I  had  accidentally  heard  about  the  inter¬ 
nal  mechanism  of  the  human  frame,  of  course  without  under¬ 
standing  anything  about  it ,  but  all  these  mysteries  were  very 
captivating  to  me  ;  and  with  chalk,  therefore,  1  drew  a  quan¬ 
tity  of  flourishes  on  the  door,  which  were  to  represent  the 
mtestines ;  and  my  description  of  the  heart  and  the  lungs 
made  the  deepest  impression.  •  I  passed  for  a  remarkably 


8 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


wise  child,  that  would  not  live  long ;  and  they  rew  arded  my 
eloquence  by  telling  me  tales  in  return  ;  and  thus  a  world  as 
lich  as  that  of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  was  revealed  to 
me.  The  stories  told  by  these  old  ladies,  and  the  insane  fig¬ 
ures  which  I  saw  around  me  in  the  asylum,  operated  in  the 
mean  time  so  powerfully  upon  me,  that  when  it  grew  dark  I 
scarcely  dared  to  go  out  of  the  house.  I  was  therefore  per¬ 
mitted,  generally  at  sunset,  to  lay  down  in  my  parents’  bed 
with  its  long,  flowered  curtains,  because  the  press-bed  in  which 
I  slept  could  not  conveniently  be  put  down  so  early  in  the 
evening  on  account  of  the  room  it  occupied  in  our  small 
dwelling  ;  and  here,  in  the  paternal  bed,  lay  I  in  a  waking 
dream,  as  if  the  actual  world  did  not  concern  me. 

I  was  very  much  afraid  of  my  weak-minded  grandfather. 
Only  once  had  he  ever  spoken  to  me,  and  then  he  had  made 
use  of  the  formal  pronoun,  “you.”  He  employed  himself  in 
cutting  out  of  wood  strange  figures,  • —  men  with  beasts’  heads 
and  beasts  with  wings  ;  these  he  packed  in  a  basket  and  car¬ 
ried  them  out  into  the  country,  where  he  was  everywhere  well 
received  by  the  peasant  women,  because  he  gave  to  them  and 
their  children  these  strange  toys.  One  day,  when  he  was 
returning  to  Odense,  I  heard  the  boys  in  the  street  shouting 
after  him  ;  I  hid  myself  behind  a  flight  of  steps  in  terror,  for 
I  knew  that  I  was  of  his  flesh  and  blood. 

I  very  seldom  played  with  other  boys  ;  even  at  school  I  took 
little  interest  in  their  games,  but  remained  sitting  within  doors. 
At  home  I  had  playthings  enough,  which  my  father  made  for 
me.  My  greatest  delight  was  in  making  clothes  for  my  dolls, 
or  in  stretching  out  one  of  my  mother’s  aprons  between  the 
wail  and  two  sticks  before  a  currant-bush  which  I  had  planted 
in  the  yard,  and  thus  to  gaze  in  between  the  sun-illumined 
leaves.  I  was  a  singularly  dreamy  child,  and  so  constantly 
went  about  with  my  eves  shut,  as  at  last  to  give  the  impression 
of  having  weak  sight,  although  the  sense  of  sight  was  especially 
cultivated  by  me. 

An  old  woman-teacher,  who  had  an  A  BC  school,  taught  me 
the  letters,  to  spell,  and  “to  read  right,”  as  it  was  called. 
She  used  to  have  her  seat  in  a  high-backed  arm-chair  near  the 
slock,  from  which  at  every  full  stroke  some  little  automata  cam# 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


9 


out.  She  made  use  of  a  big  rod,  which  she  always  carried 
with  her.  The  school  consisted  mostly  of  girls.  It  was  the 
custom  of  the  school  fo:  all  to  spell  loudly  and  in  as  high  a 
key  as  possible.  The  mistress  dared  not  beat  me,  as  my 
mother  had  made  it  a  condition  of  my  going  that  I  should  not 
be  touched.  One  day  having  got  a  hit  of  the  rod,  I  rose 
immediately,  took  my  book,  and  without  further  ceremony 
went  home  to  my  mother,  asked  that  I  might  go  to  another 
school,  and  that  was  granted  me.  My  mother  sent  me  to 
Carsten’s  school  for  boys  ;  there  was  also  one  girl  there,  a  little 
one  somewhat  older  than  I  ;  we  became  very  good  friends ; 
she  used  to  speak  of  the  advantage  it  was  to  be  to  her  in  going 
into  service,  and  that  she  went  to  school  especially  to  learn 
arithemetic,  for,  as  her  mother  told  her,  she  could  then  be¬ 
come  dairy-maid  in  some  great  manor. 

“  That  you  can  become  in  my  castle  when  I  am  a  noble¬ 
man  !  ”  said  I,  and  she  laughed  at  me  and  told  me  that  I  was 
only  a  poor  boy.  One  day  I  had  drawn  something  which  I 
called  my  castle,  and  I  told  her  that  I  was  a  changed  child  of 
high  birth,  and  that  the  angels  of  God  came  down  and  spoke 
to  me.  I  wanted  to  make  her  stare  as  I  did  with  the  old 
women  in  the  hospital,  but  she  would  not  be  caught.  She 
looked  queerly  at  me,  and  said  to  one  of  the  other  boys  stand¬ 
ing  near,  “  He  is  a  fool  like  his  grandpapa,”  and  I  shivered  at 
the  words.  I  had  said  it  to  give  me  an  air  of  importance  in 
their  eyes,  but  I  failed  and  only  made  them  think  that  I  was 
insane  like  my  grandfather. 

I  never  spoke  to  her  again  about  these  things,  but  we  were 
no  longer  the  same  playmates  as  before.  I  was  the  smallest 
in  the  school,  and  my  teacher,  Mr.  Carsten,  always  took  me 
by  the  hand  while  the  other  boys  played,  that  I  might  not  be 
run  over ;  he  loved  me  much,  gave  me  cakes  and  flowers, 
and  tapped  me  on  the  cheeks.  One  of  the  older  boys  did  not 
know  his  lesson  and  was  punished  by  being  placed,  book  in 
hand,  upon  the  school-table,  around  which  we  were  seated,  but 
seeing  me  quite  inconsolable  at  this  punishment,  he  pardoned 
the  culprit. 

The  poor  old  teacher  became,  later  in  life  telegraph-director 
at  Thorseng,  where  he  still  lived  until  a  few  years  since.  It  ia 


IO 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


said  that  the  old  man,  when  showing  the  visitors  around,  told 
them  with  a  pleasant  smile  :  “  Well,  well,  you  will  perhaps  not 
believe  that  such  a  poor  old  man  as  I  was  the  first  teacher  of 
one  of  our  most  renowned  poets  !  H.  C.  Andersen  was  one 
of  my  scholars  !  ” 

Sometimes,  during  the  harvest,  my  mother  went  into  the 
field  to  glean.  I  accompanied  her,  and  we  went,  like  Ruth  in 
the  Bible,  to  glean  in  the  rich  fields  of  Boaz.  One  day  we 
went  to  a  place  the  bailiff  of  which  was  well  known  for  being 
a  man  of  a  rude  and  savage  disposition.  We  saw  him  coming 
with  a  huge  whip  in  his  hand,  and  my  mother  and  all  the  others 
ran  away.  I  had  wooden  shoes  on  my  bare  feet,  and  in  my 
haste  I  lost  these,  and  then  the  thorns  pricked  me  so  that  I 
could  not  run,  and  thus  I  was  left  behind  and  alone.  The 
man  came  up  and  lifted  his  whip  to  strike  me,  when  I  looked 
him  in  the  face  and  involuntarily  exclaimed,  —  How  dare  you 
strike  me,  when  God  can  see  it  ?  ”  • 

The  strong,  stern  man  looked  at  me,  and  at  once  became 
mild  ;  he  patted  me  on  my  cheeks,  asked  me  my  name,  and 
gave  me  money/’ 

When  I  brought  this  to  my  mother  and  showed  it  her,  she 
said  to  the  others,  “  He  is  a  strange  child,  my  Hans  Christian  , 
everybody  is  kind  to  him :  this  bad  fellow  even  has  given  him 
money.” 

I  grew  up  pious  and  superstitious  ;  I  had  not  the  least  idea 
of  what  it  was  to  be  in  want ;  my  father  lived,  as  the  saying 
is,  from  hand  to  mouth,  but  what  we  had  was  more  than 
enough  for  me.  As  to  my  dress  I  was  rather  spruce  ;  an  old 
woman  altered  my  father’s  clothes  for  me  ;  my  mother  would 
fasten  three  or  four  large  pieces  of  silk  with  pins  on  my 
breast,  and  that  had  to  do  for  vests ;  a  large  kerchief  was 
tied  round  my  neck  with  a  mighty  bow  ;  my  head  was  washed 
with  soap  and  my  hair  curled,  and  then  I  was  in  all  my  glory. 

In  that  attire  I  went  with  my  parents  for  the  first  time  to 
the  theatre.  Odense  at  that  time  had  already  a  substantial 
play-house  built,  I  believe,  for  the  company  of  Count  Trampe 
or  that  of  Count  Hahn  ;  the  first  representations  I  saw  were 
given  in  the  German  language.  Mr.  Franck  was  the  director  ; 
he  gave  operas  and  comedies.  “  Das  Donauweibchen  ”  was  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


II 


favorite  piece  ;  the  first  representation,  however,  that  I  saw 
was  Holberg’s  “Village  Politicians.” 

The  first  impressions  which  a  theatre  and  the  crowd 
assembled  there  made  upon  me  was,  at  all  events,  no  sign  of 
anything  poetical  slumbering  in  me  ;  for  my  first  exclamation 
on  seeing  so  many  people  was,  “  Now,  if  we  only  had  a3 
many  casks  of  butter  as  there  are  people  here,  then  I  would 
eat  lots  of  butter  !  ”  The  theatre,  however,  soon  became  my 
favorite  place,  but,  as  I  could  only  very  seldom  go  there,  I 
acquired  the  friendship  of  the  man  who  carried  out  the  play¬ 
bills,  and  he  gave  me  one  every  day.  With  this  I  seated  my¬ 
self  in  a  corner  and  imagined  an  entire  play,  according  to  the 
name  of  the  piece  and  the  characters  in  it.  That  was  my 
first,  unconscious  poetizing. 

My  father’s  favorite  reading  was  plays  and  stories,  although 
he  also  read  works  of  history  and  the  Scriptures.  He  pondered 
in  silent  thought  afterward  upon  that  which  he  had  read ; 
but  my  mother  did  not  understand  him  when  he  talked  with 
her  about  it,  and  therefore  he  grew  more  and  more  silent. 
One  day  he  closed  the  Bible  with  the  words,  “  Christ  was  a 
man  like  us,  but  an  extraordinary  man  !  ”  These  words  horri¬ 
fied  my  mother  and  she  burst  into  tears.  In  my  distress  I 
prayed  to  God  that  he  would  forgive  this  fearful  blasphemy  in 
my  father.  “  There  is  no  other  devil  than  that  which  we  have 
in  our  own  hearts,”  I  heard  my  father  say  one  day,  and  I 
made  myself  miserable  about  him  and  his  soul  ;  I  was  there¬ 
fore  entirely  of  the  opinion  of  my  mother  and  the  neighbors, 
when  my  father,  one  morning,  found  three  scratches  on  his 
arm,  probably  occasioned  by  a  nail,  that  the  devil  had  been 
to  visit  him  in  the  night,  in  order  to  prove  to  him  that  he 
really  existed. 

My  father  had  not  many  friends ;  in  his  leisure  hours  he 
used  to  take  me  with  him  out  into  the  woods.  He  had  a  great 
desire  for  country  life,  and  it  happened  just  at  this  time  that  a 
shoemaker  was  required  at  a  manor  house  who  would  set  up 
his  bench  in  the  neighboring  village,  and  there  have  a  house 
free  of  rent,  a  little  garden,  and  pasture  for  a  cow ;  by  perma¬ 
nent  work  from  the  manor  and  these  additional  helps  one 
cculd  manage  nicely.  My  mother  and  father  were  very  eager 


12 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


to  have  the  place,  and  my  father  got  a  trial  job  to  sew  a  pair 
of  dancing-shoes  ;  a  piece  of  silk  was  sent  him,  the  leather  he 
was  to  furnish  himself.  All  our  talk  for  a  couple  of  days 
turned  upon  these  shoes  ;  I  longed  so  much  for  the  little 
garden  where  we  could  have  flowers  and  shrubs,  and  I  would 
sit  in  the  sunshine  and  listen  to  the  cuckoo.  I  prayed  very 
fervently  to  God  that  he  would  grant  us  our  wishes,  and  1 
thought  that  no  greater  happiness  could  be  bestowed  upon  us. 
The  shoes  were  at  last  finished  ;  we  looked  on  them  with  a 
solemn  feeling,  for  they  were  to  decide  our  future.  My  father 
wrapped  them  in  his  handkerchief  and  went  off,  and  we  waited 
for  him  with  faces  beaming  with  joy.  He  came  home  pale 
and  angry  ;  the  gracious  lady,  he  said,  had  not  even  tried  the 
shoes  on,  —  only  looked  at  them  sourly,  and  said  that  the  silk 
was  spoiled  and  that  he  could  not  get  the  place.  “  If  you 
have  spoiled  your  silk,”  said  my  father,  “  I  can  be  reconciled 
to  spoiling  my  leather  too,”  so  he  took  a  knife  and  cut  off  the 
soles. 

There  was  no  more  hope  of  our  getting  into  the  country. 
We  mingled  our  tears  together,  and  I  thought  that  God  could 
easily  have  granted  our  wish.  If  he  had  done  so,  I  had  no 
doubt  been  a  peasant  all  my  life  ;  my  whole  future  would  have 
been  different  from  what  it  has  been.  I  have  often  since 
thought  and  said  to  myself :  Do  you  think  that  our  Lord  for 
your  sake  and  for  your  future  has  let  your  parents  lose  their 
days  of  happiness  ? 

My  father’s  rambles  in  the  n  x>d  became  more  frequent ;  he 
had  no  rest.  The  events  of  the  war  in  Germany,  which  he 
read  in  the  newspapers  with  eager  curiosity,  occupied  him 
completely.  Napoleon  was  his  hero :  his  rise  from  obscurity 
was  the  most  beautiful  example  to  him.  At  that  time  Den¬ 
mark  was  in  league  with  France  ;  nothing  was  talked  of  but 
war ;  my  father  entered  the  service  as  a  soldier,  in  hope  of 
returning  home  a  lieutenant.  My  mother  wept,  the  neighbors 
shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  said  that  it  was  folly  to  go  out 
to  be  shot  when  there  was  no  occasion  for  it. 

The  morning  on  which  the  corps  were  to  march  I  heard  my 
father  singing  and  talking  merrily,  but  his  heart  was  deeply 
aghated  ;  I  observed  that  by  the  passionate  manner  in  which 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


*3 

he  kissed  me  when  he  took  his  leave.  I  lay  sick  of  the  measles 
and  alone  in  the  room,  when  the  drums  beat,  and  my  mother 
accompanied  mv  father,  weeping,  to  the  city  gate.  As  soon 
as  they  were  gone  my  old  grandmother  came  in  ;  she  looked 
at  me  with  her  mild  eyes  and  said  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
if  I  . died  ;  but  that  God’s  will  was  always  the  best. 

That  was  the  first  day  of  real  sorrow  which  I  remember. 

The  regiment  advanced  no  further  than  Holstein  ;  peace  was 
concluded,  and  the  voluntary  soldier  returned  to  his  work-stool. 
Everything  fell  into  its  old  course.  I  played  again  with  my 
dolls,  acted  comedies,  always  in  German,  because  I  had 
only  seen  them  in  this  language  ;  but  my  German  was  a  sort 
of  gibberish  which  I  made  up,  and  in  which  there  occurred 
only  one  real  German  word,  and  that  was  “  Besen”  a  word 
which  I  had  picked  up  out  of  the  various  dialects  which  my 
father  brought  home  from  Holstein. 

“  Thou  hast  indeed  some  benefit  from  my  travels,”  said  he 
in  joke.  “  God  knows  whether  thou  wilt  get  as  far  ;  but  that 
must  be  thy  care.  Think  about  it,  Hans  Christian  !  ”  But  it 
was  my  mother’s  intention  that,  as  long  as  she  had  any  voice 
in  the  matter,  I  should  remain  at  home,  and  not  lose  my 
health  as  he  had  done. 

That  was  the  case  with  him  :  his  health  had  suffered.  One 
morning  he  woke  in  a  state  of  the  wildest  excitement,  and 
talked  only  of  campaigns  and  Napoleon.  He  fancied  that  he 
had  received  orders  from  him  to  take  the  command.  My 
mother  immediately  sent  me,  not  to  the  physician  but  to  a  so- 
called  wise  woman  some  miles  from  Odense.  I  went  to  her. 
She  questioned  me,  measured  my  arm  with  a  woolen  thread, 
made  extraordinary  signs,  and  at  last  laid  a  green  twig  upon 
my  breast.  It  was,  she  said,  a  piece  of  the  same  kind  of  tree 
upon  which  the  Saviour  was  crucified. 

“  Go  now,”  said  she,  “  by  the  river  side  toward  home.  If 
your  father  is  to  die  this  time,  then  you  will  meet  his  ghost.” 

My  anxiety  and  distress  may  be  imagined,  —  I,  who  was 
so  full  of  superstition,  and  whose  imagination  was  so  easily 
excited. 

“  And  thou  hast  not  met  anything,  hast  thou  ?  ”  inquired 
my  mother  when  I  got  home.  I  assured  her,  with  beating 
heart,  that  I  had  not 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


«4 

My  father  died  the  third  day  after  that.  His  corpse  lay  on 
the  bed  ;  I  therefore  slept  with  my  mother.  A  cricket  chirped 
the  whole  night  through. 

“  He  is  dead,”  said  my  mother,  addressing  it ;  “  thou  needest 
not  call  him.  The  ice  maiden  has  fetched  him.” 

I  understood  what  she  meant.  I  recollected  that,  in  the 
winter  before,  when  our  window-panes  were  frozen,  my  father 
pointed  to  them  and  showed  us  a  figure  like  that  of  a  maiden 
with  outstretched  arms.  “  She  is  come  to  fetch  me,”  said  he, 
in  jest.  And  now,  when  he  lay  dead  on  the  bed,  my  mother 
remembered  this,  and  it  occupied  my  thoughts  also. 

He  was  buried  in  St.  Knud’s  church-yard,  by  the  door  oil 
the  left-hand  side  coming  from  the  altar.  My  grandmother 
planted  roses  upon  his  grave.  There  are  now  in  the  self-same 
place  two  strangers’  graves,  and  the  grass  grows  green  upon 
them  also. 

After  my  father’s  death  I  was  entirely  left  to  myself.  My 
mother  went  out  washing.  I  sat  alone  at  home  with  my  little 
theatre,  made  dolls’  clothes,  and  read  plays.  It  has  been  told 
me  that  I  was  always  clean  and  nicely  dressed.  I  had  grown 
tall ;  my  hair  was  long,  bright,  and  almost  yellow,  and  I  always 
went  bareheaded.  There  dwelt  in  our  neighborhood  the 
widow  of  a  clergyman,  Madame  Bunkeflod,  with  the  sister  of 
her  deceased  husband.  This  lady  opened  to  me  her  door,  and 
hers  was  the  first  house  belonging  to  the  educated  class  into 
which  I  was  kindly  received.  The  deceased  clergyman  had 
written  poems,  and  had  gained  a  reputation  in  Danish  litera¬ 
ture.  His  spinning  songs  were  at  that  time  in  the  mouths  of 
the  people.  In  my  vignettes  to  the  Danish  poets  I  thus  sang 
of  him  whom  my  contemporaries  had  forgotten,  —  * 

Spindles  rattle,  wheels  turn  round, 

Spinning  songs  depart ; 

Songs  which  youth  sings  soon  become 
Music  of  the  heart. 

Here  it  was  that  I  heard  for  the  first  time  the  word  pod 
spoken,  and  that  with  so  much  reverence,  as  proved  it  to  be 
something  sacred.  It  is  true  that  my  father  had  read  Hoi- 
berg’s  plays  to  me  ;  but  here  it  was  not  of  these  that  they 
sooke,  but  of  verses  and  poetry.  “  My  brother  the  poet,”  said 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


15 

Bunkeflod’s  sister,  and  her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  said  it 
From  her  I  learned  that  it  was  a  something  glorious,  a  some¬ 
thing  fortunate,  to  be  a  poet.  Here,  too,  for  the  first  time,  I 
read  Shakespeare,  —  in  a  bad  translation,  to  be  sure ;  but  the 
bold  descriptions,  the  heroic  incidents,  witches,  and  ghosts 
were  exactly  to  my  taste.  '  I  immediately  acted  Shakespeare’s 
plays  on  my  little  puppet  theatre.  I  saw  Hamlet’s  ghost, 
and  lived  upon  the  heath  with  Lear.  The  more  persons  died 
in  a  play,  the  more  interesting  I  thought  it.  At  this  time  [ 
wrote  my  first  piece :  it  was  nothing  less  than  a  tragedy, 
wherein,  as  a  matter  of  course,  everybody  died.  The  subject 
of  it  I  borrowed  from  an  old  song  about  Pyramus  and  Thisbe  ; 
but  I  had  increased  the  incidents  through  a  hermit  and  his 
son,  who  both  loved  Thisbe,  and  who  both  killed  themselves 
when  she  died.  Many  speeches  of  the  hermit  were  passages 
from  the  Bible,  taken  out  of  the  Little  Catechism,  especially 
from  our  duty  to  our  neighbors.  To  the  piece  I  gave  the  title 
v  Abor  and  Elvira.” 

“It  ought  to  be  called  ‘  Perch  (Abort  e)  and  Stockfish,’” 
said  one  of  our  neighbors  wittily  to  me  as  I  came  with  it  to 
her  after  having  read  it  with  great  satisfaction  and  joy  to  all 
the  people  in  our  street.  This  entirely  depressed  me,  because 
I  felt  that  she  was  turning  both  me  and  my  poem  into  ridicule. 
With  a  troubled  heart,  I  told  it  to  my  mother. 

“She  only  said  so,”  replied  my  mother,  “because  her  son 
had  not  done  it.”  I  was  comforted,  and  began  a  new  piece, 
in  which  a  king  and  queen  were  among  the  dramatis  personee. 
I  thought  it  was  not  quite  right  that  these  dignified  person¬ 
ages,  as  in  Shakespeare,  should  speak  like  other  men  and 
women.  I  asked  my  mother  and  different  people  how  a  king 
ought  properly  to  speak,  but  no  one  knew  exactly.  They 
said  that  it  was  so  many  years  since  a  king  had  been  in 
Odense,  but  that  he  certainly  spoke  in  a  foreign  language.  I 
procured  myself,  therefore,  a  sort  of  lexicon,  in  which  were 
German,  French,  and  English  words  with  Danish  meanings, 
and  this  helped  me.  I  took  a  word  out  of  each  language,  and 
inserted  them  into  the  speeches  of  my  king  and  queen.  It 
was  a  regular  Babel-like  language,  which  I  considered  only 
writable  for  such  elevated  personages. 


i6 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


I  desired  now  that  everybody  should  hear  my  piece.  It 
was  a  real  felicity  to  me  to  read  it  aloud,  and  it  never  occurred 
to  me  that  others  should  not  have  the  same  pleasure  in  listen¬ 
ing  to  it. 

The  son  of  one  of  our  neighbors  worked  in  a  cloth  manufac¬ 
tory,  and  every  week  brought  home  a  sum  of  money.  I  was  at 
loose  ends,  people  said,  and  got  nothing.  I  was  also  now  to 
go  to  the  manufactory,  “  not  for  the  sake  of  the  money,”  my 
mother  said,  “  but  that  she  might  know  where  I  was,  and 
what  I  was  doing.” 

My  old  grandmother  took  me  to  the  place,  therefore,  and 
was  very  much  affected,  because,  said  she,  she  had  not  ex¬ 
pected  to  live  to  see  the  time  when  I  should  consort  with  the 
poor  ragged  lads  that  worked  there. 

Many  of  the  journeymen  who  were  employed  in  the  manu¬ 
factory  were  Germans ;  they  sang  and  were  merry  fellows,  and 
many  a  coarse  joke  of  theirs  filled  the  place  with  loud  laugh¬ 
ter.  I  heard  them,  and  I  there  learned  that,  to  the  innocent 
ears  of  a  child,  the  impure  remains  very  unintelligible.  It 
took  no  hold  upon  my  heart.  I  was  possessed  at  that  time 
of  a  remarkably  beautiful  and  high  soprano  voice,  and  I  knew 
it  ;  because  when  I  sang  in  my  parents’  little  garden,  the 
people  in  the  street  stood  and  listened,  and  the  fine  folks  in 
the  garden  of  the  states-councilor,  which  adjoined  ours,  lis¬ 
tened  at  the  fence.  When,  therefore,  the  people  at  the  manu¬ 
factory  asked  me  whether  I  could  sing,  I  immediately  began, 
and  all  the  looms  stood  still :  all  the  journeymen  listened  to 
me.  I  had  to  sing  again  and  again,  whilst  the  other  boys  had 
my  work  given  them  to  do.  I  now  told  them  that  I  also 
could  act  plays,  and  that  I  knew  whole  scenes  of  Holberg 
and  Shakespeare.  Everybody  liked  me  ;  and  in  this  way  the 
first  days  in  the  manufactory  passed  on  very  merrily.  One 
day,  however,  when  I  was  in  my  best  singing  vein,  and  every¬ 
body  spoke  of  the  extraordinary  brilliancy  of  my  voice,  one  of 
the  journeymen  said  that  I  was  a  girl,  and  not  a  boy.  He 
seized  hold  of  me.  I  cried  and  screamed.  The  other  jour¬ 
neymen  thought  it  very  amusing,  and  held  me  fast  by  my  arms 
and  legs.  I  screamed  aloud,  and  was  as  much  ashamed  as  a 
girl;  and  then,  darting  from  them,  rushed  home  to  my  mother. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  \  J 

who  immediately  promised  me  that  I  should  never  go  there 
again. 

I  again  visited  Madame  Bunkeflod,  for  whose  birthday  I 
invented  and  made  a  white  silk  pincushion.  I  also  made  an 
acquaintance  with  another  old  clergyman’s  widow  in  the 
neighborhood.  She  permitted  me  to  read  aloud  to  her  the 
works  which  she  had  from  the  circulating  library.  .  One  of 
them  began  with  these  words  :  “  It  was  a  tempestuous  night ; 
the  rain  beat  against  the  window-panes.” 

“  That  is  an  extraordinary  book,”  said  the  old  lady ;  and  I 
quite  innocently  asked  her  how  she  knew  that  it  was.  “I 
can  tell  from  the  beginning,”  said  she,  “  that  it  will  turn  out 
extraordinary.” 

I  regarded  her  penetration  with  a  sort  of  reverence. 

Once  in  the  harvest  time  my  mother  took  me  with  her 
many  miles  from  Odense  to  a  nobleman’s  seat  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood  of  Bogense,  her  native  place.  The  lady  who  lived 
there,  and  with  whose  parents  my  mother  had  lived,  had  said 
that  some  time  she  might  come  and  see  her.  That  was  a 
great  journey  for  me  :  we  went  most  of  the  way  on  foot,  and 
required,  I  believe,  two  days  for  the  journey.  The  country 
here  made  such  a  strong  impression  upon  me,  that  my  most 
earnest  wish  was  to  remain  in  it,  and  become  a  countryman. 
It  was  just  in  the  hop-picking  season  ;  my  mother  and  I  sat 
in  the  barn  with  a  great  many  country  people  round  a  great 
bin,  and  helped  to  pick  the  hops.  They  told  tales  as  they 
sat  at  their  work,  and  every  one  related  what  wonderful  things 
he  had  seen  or  experienced.  One  afternoon  I  heard  an  old 
man  among  them  say  that  God  knew  everything,  both  what 
had  happened  and  what  would  happen.  That  idea  occupied 
my  whole  mind,  and  toward  evening,  as  I  went  alone  from 
he  court,  where  there  was  a  deep  pond,  and  stood  upon  some 
stones  which  were  just  within  the  water,  the  thought  passed 
through  my  head,  whether  God  actually  knew  everything 
•Much  was  to  happen  there.  Yes,  he  has  now  determined  that 
I  should  live  and  be  so  many  years  old,  thought  I  ;  but,  if  I 
now  were  to  jump  into  the  water  here  and  drown  myself,  then 
it  would  not  be  as  he  wished  ;  and  all  at  once  I  was  firmly 
and  resolutely  determined  to  drown  myself.  I  ran  to  where 


i  8 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


the  water-  was  deepest,  and  then  a  new  thought  passed  through 

my  soul.  “It  is  the  devil  who  wishes  to  have  power  over 

me!”  I  uttered  a  loud  cry,  and,  running  away  from  the  place 

as  if  I  were  pursued,  fell  weeping  into  my  mother’s  arms. 

But  neither  she  nor  any  one  else  could  wring  from  me  wkat 
«  m  t 

vas  amiss  with  me. 

“  He  has  certainly  seen  a  ghost,”  said  one  of  the  women, 
and  I  almost  believed  so  myself. 

My  mother  married  a  second  time,  a  young  handicraftsman  , 
but  his  family,  who  also  belonged  to  the  handicraft  class, 
thought  that  he  had  married  below  himself,  and  neither  my 
mother  nor  myself  were  permitted  to  visit  them.  My  step¬ 
father  was  a  young,  grave  man,  who  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  my  education.  I  spent  my  time,  therefore,  over  my  peep- 
show  and  my  puppet  theatre,  and  my  greatest  happiness  con¬ 
sisted  in  collecting  bright  colored  pieces  of  cloth  and  silk, 
which  I  cut  out  myself,  and  sewed.  My  mother  regarded  it 
as  good  exercise  preparatory  to  my  becoming  a  tailor,  and 
took  up  the  idea  that  I  certainly  was  born  for  it.  I,  on  the 
contrary,  said  that  I  would  go  to  the  theatre  and  be  an  actor, 
a  wish  which  my  mother  most  sedulously  opposed,  because  she 
knew  of  no  other  theatre  than  those  of  the  strolling  players 
and  the  rope-dancers.  “  Be  sure,  you  will  then  get  good  whip-, 
pings,”  said  she  ;  “  they  will  starve  you  to  death  to  make  you 
supple,  and  they  will  give  you  oil  to  eat  to  make  your  limbs 
soft!  ”  No,  a  tailor  I  must  and  should  be.  “  You  see  how  well 
Mr.  Dickmann,  the  tailor,  is  getting  on  !  ”  Mr.  Dickmann,  was 
the  first  tailor  in  the  town.  “  He  lives  in  Cross  Street,  has 
large  windows  and  journeymen  on  the  table ;  yes,  if  you  could 
only  be  such  a  one  !  ”  The  only  thing  which  in  some  meas¬ 
ure  reconciled  me  to  this  prospect  was,  that  I  should  then  get 
so  many  fragments  to  make  up  for  my  theatre. 

My  parents  moved  to  a  street  out  of  the  Monk-Mill’s  gate, 
and  there  we  had  a  garden ;  it  was  a  very  little  and  narrow 
one,  containing  only  one  long  garden-bed  with  currant  and 
gooseberry  bushes,  and  the  path  that  led  down  to  the  river 
behind  the  monk-mill.  Three  great  water-wheels  were  turn¬ 
ing  round  from  the  falling  water,  and  stopped  when  the  water' 
gates  were  closed  then  all  the  water  ran  out  from  the  river 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


19 


the  bed  dried  up,  the  fishes  plashed  and  jumped  in  its  hoi* 
lows  so  that  I  could  catch  them  with  my  hands,  and  under  the 
great  water-wheels  fat  water-rats  came  forth  to  drink  ;  sud¬ 
denly  the  water-gates  were  opened  and  the  water  rushed  roar¬ 
ing  and  foaming  down  :  no  rats  were  now  to  be  seen,  the  river¬ 
bed  was  again  filled,  and  I  ran  plashing  through  the  water,  as 
frightened  as  the  amber-gatherers  on  the  coasts  of  the  western 
sea,  when  they  happen  to  be  far  out  and  the  flood  sets  in.  I 
stood  upon  one  of  the  big  stones  my  mother  used  for  wash¬ 
board  and  sang  with  all  my  might  the  songs  I  knew,  and  some¬ 
times  there  was  neither  meaning  nor  melody  in  them,  but  still 
I  sang  my  own  self-made  tunes  as  well  as  I  could.  The 
neighboring  garden  belonged  to  Mr.  Falbe,  whosq  wife 
Oehlenschlager  mentions  in  his  autobiography ;  she  had  for¬ 
merly  been  actress,  and  was  beautiful  as  Ida  Munster  in  the 
drama  “  Herman  von  Unna ;  ”  she  was  then  Miss  Beck. 

When  they  had  company  in  the  garden  they  were  always 
listening  to  my  singing,  and  I  knew  it.  All  told  me  that  I 
had  a  beautiful  voice,  which  would  bring  me  luck  in  the 
world.  I  often  meditated  how  this  luck  should  come,  and  as 
the  wonderful  has  always  been  truth  for  me,  so  I  expected  the 
most  marvelous  things  would  happen. 

An  old  woman  who  rinsed  clothes  in  the  river,  told  me  that 
the  Empire  of  China  was  situated  straight  under  the  very  river 
of  Odense,  and  I  did  not  find  it  impossible  at  all  that  a  Chi¬ 
nese  prince,  some  moonlight  night  when  I  was  sitting  there, 
might  dig  himself  through  the  earth  up  to  us,  hear  me  sing, 
and  so  take  me  down  with  him  to  his  kingdom,  make  me  rich 
and  noble,  and  then  let  me  again  visit  Odense,  where  I  would 
live  and  build  me  a  castle.  Many  evenings  I  was  occupied 
with  tracing  and  making  ground-plans  for  it. 

I  was  quite  a  child,  and  long  afterwards  when  declaiming 
and  reading  my  poems  in  Copenhagen,  I  still  expected  and 
hoped  for  such  a  prince  among  my  auditors,  who  would  hear 
me,  understand  me,  and  help  me. 

My  passion  for  reading,  the  many  dramatic  scenes  which  I 
Knew  by  heart,  and  my  remarkably  fine  voice,  had  turned 
upon  me  in  some  sort  the  attention  of  several  of  the  more  in 
♦Juential  families  of  Odense.  I  was  sent  for  to  their  houses 


20 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


and  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  my  mind  excited  their  ifi.- 
terest.  Among  others  who  noticed  me  was  the  Colonel 
Hoegh-Guldberg,  who  with  his  family  showed  me  the  kindest 
sympathy  ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  he  introduced  me  to  Prince 
Christian,  afterward  King  Christian  the  Eighth. 

“If  the  prince  should  ask  you  what  you  have  a  liking  for/' 
said  he,  “  answer  him  that  your  highest  desire  is  to  enter  the 
grammar  school.”  So  I  said  this  to  the  prince  when  he 
really  asked  me  this  question,  and  he  answered  me,  that 
my  singing  and  declamation  of  poetry  was  really  good  and 
beautiful,  but  for  all  that  was  no  mark  of  genius,  and  that  I 
must  keep  in  mind  that  studying  was  a  long  and  expensive 
course  !  in  the  mean  time  he  would  take  care  of  me  if  I  would 
learn  a  handy  trade,  for  instance  that  of  a  turner.  I  had  no 
inclination  at  all  for  it,  and  I  went  away  very  much  disap¬ 
pointed,  although  this  noble  prince  had  spoken  very  naturally 
and  was  quite  in  the  right.  Since  that,  when  my  abilities  were 
more  clearly  shown,  he  was,  as  we  shall  see,  very  kind  and 
good  toward  me  until  his  death,  and  he  is  held  in  my  memory 
with  the  most  tender  feelings. 

I  grew  rapidly,  and  was  a  tall  lad,  of  whom  my  mother  said 
that  she  could  not  let  him  any  longer  go  about  without  any 
object  in  life.  I  was  sent,  therefore,  to  the  charity  school, 
but  learned  only  religion,  writing,  and  arithmetic,  and  the  last 
badly  enough  ;  I  could  also  scarcely  spell  a  word  correctly. 
I  never  studied  my  lessons  at  home  ;  I  used  to  learn  them  on 
the  way  to  school  and  my  mother  boasting  of  my  good  memory 
at  the  expense  of  our  neighbor’s  son,  said,  “  He  reads  till  it 
hums,  but  Hans  Christian  does  not  need  to  open  his  book  and 
yet  he  knows  his  lesson.”  On  the  master’s  birthday  I  always 
wove  him  a  garland  and  wrote  him  a  poem ;  he  received  them 
half  with  smiles  and  half  as  a  joke  :  the  last  time,  however,  he 
scolded  me.  His  name  was  Velhaven  and  lie  was  from  Nor¬ 
way  ;  he  was  no  doubt  a  good  man,  but  was  of  a  violent  nature, 
and  seemed  to  be  very  unhappy.  He  spoke  in  earnest  about 
religion,  and  when  he  went  through  our  lessons  in  Biblical 
history  he  did  it  in  such  a  vivid  fashion  that,  listening  to  him, 
all  the  painted  pictures  on  the  wall-hangings  representing 
scenes  from  the  Old  Testament,  became  full  of  life  and  had 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


21 


for  me  the  same  beauty,  truth,  and  freshness  that  I  afterwards 
found  in  the  magnificent  pictures  of  Raphael  and  Titian. 
Often  I  sat  dreaming  and  gazing  on  the  variegated  wall,  and 
he  gave  me  a  little  reprimand  because  I  was  absent-minded. 
I  told  the  boys  curious  stories  in  which  I  was  always  the 
chief  person,  but  was  sometimes  rallied  for  that.  The  street 
lads  had  also  heard  from  their  parents  of  my  peculiar  turn  of 
mind,  and  that  I  was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the  houses  of 
the  gentry.  I  was  therefore  one  day  pursued  by  a  wild  crowd 
of  them,  who  shouted  after  me  derisively,  “  There  runs  the 
play-writer !  ”  I  hid  myself  at  home  in  a  corner,  wept,  and 
prayed  to  God. 

My  mother  said  that  I  must  be  confirmed,  in  order  that  1 
might  be  apprenticed  to  the  tailor  trade,  and  thus  do  something 
rational.  She  loved  me  with  her  whole  heart,  but  she  did  not 
understand  my  impulses  and  my  endeavors,  nor  indeed  at 
that  time  did  I  myself.  The  people  about  her  always  spoke 
against  my  odd  ways,  and  turned  me  to  ridicule. 

We  bejonged  to  the  parish  of  St.  Knud,  and  the  candidates 
for  Confirmation  could  either  enter  their  names  with  the  provost 
or  the  chaplain.  The  children  of  the  so-called  superior 
families  and  the  scholars  of  the  grammar  school  went  to  the 
first,  and  the  children  of  the  poor  to  the  second.  I,  however, 
announced  myself  as  a  candidate  to  the  provost,  who  was 
obliged  to  receive  me,  although  he  discovered  vanity  in 
my  placing  myself  among  his  catechists,  where,  although 
taking  the  lowest  place,  I  was  still  above  those  who  were  under 
the  care  of  the  chaplain.  I  would,  however,  hope  that  it  was 
ot  alone  vanity  which  impelled  me.  I  had  a  sort  of  fear  of 
the  poor  boys,  who  had  laughed  at  me,  and  I  always  felt,  as  it 
weie,  an  inward  drawing  towards  the  scholars  of  the  grammar 
school,  whom  1  regarded  as  far  better  than  other  boys.  When 
I  saw  them  playing  in  the  church-yard,  I  would  stand  outside 
the  railings,  and  wish  that  I  were  but  among  the  fortunate 
ones — not  for  the  sake  of  play,  but  for  the  sake  of  the  many 
books  they  had,  and  for  what  they  might  be  able  to  become 
in  the  world.  At  the  provost’s,  therefore,  I  should  be  able 
to  associate  with  them,  and  be  as  they  were  ;  but  I  do  not 
remember  a  single  oie  of  them  now,  so  little  intercourse 


22 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


would  they  hold  with  me.  I  had  daily  tne  feeling  of  having 
thrust  myself  in  where  people  thought  that  I  did  not  belong. 
One  young  girl,  however,  there  was,  and  one  who  was  consid¬ 
ered,  too,  of  the  highest  rank,  whom  I  shall  afterwards  have 
occasion  to  mention  ;  she  always  looked  gently  and  kindly  at 
me,  and  even  once  gave  me  a  rose.  I  returned  home  full  of 
happiness,  because  there  was  one  being  who  did  not  overlook 
and  repel  me. 

An  old  female  tailor  altered  my  deceased  father’s  great 
coat  into  a  confirmation  suit  for  me  ;  never  before  had  I 
worn  so  good  a  coat.  I  had  also,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  a 
pair  of  boots.  My  delight  was  extremely  great  ;  my  only 
cear  was  that  everybody  would  not  see  them,  and  therefore 
i  drew  them  up  over  my  trousers,  and  thus  marched  through 
the  church.  The  boots  creaked,  and  that  inwardly  pleased 
me,  for  thus  the  congregation  would  hear  that  they  were  new. 
My  whole  devotion  was  disturbed  ;  I  was  aware  of  it,  and  it 
caused  me  a  horrible  pang  of  conscience  that  my  thoughts 
should  be  as  much  with  my  new  boots  as  with  God.  I  prayed 
him  earnestly  from  my  heart  to  forgive  me,  and  then  again  I 
thought  about  my  new  boots. 

During  the  last  year  I  had  saved  together  a  little  sum  of 
money.  When  I  counted  it  over  I  found  it  to  be  thirteen  rix 
dollars  banco  (about  thirty  shillings).  I  was  quite  overjoyed 
at  the  possession  of  so  much  wealth,  and  as  my  mother  now 
most  resolutely  required  that  I  should  be  apprenticed  to  a 
iailor,  I  prayed  and  besought  her  that  I  might  make  a  journey 
to  Copenhagen,  that  I  might  see  the  greatest  city  in  the  world. 

“  What  wilt  thou  do  there  ?  ”  asked  my  mother. 

“  I  wifi  be  famous,”  returned  I  ;  and  I  then  told  her  all  that 
I  had  rea.l  about  extraordinary  men.  “  People  have,”  said  1, 
“at  first  an  immense  deal  of  adversity  to  go  through,  and 
then  they  will  be  famous.” 

it  was  a  wholly  unintelligible  impulse  that  guided  me.  I 
wept,  I  prayed,  and  at  last  my  mother  consented,  after  having 
first  sent  for  a  so-called  wise  woman  out  of  the  hospital,  that  she 
might  read  my  future  fortune  by  the  coffee-grounds  and  cards, 

“  Tour  son  will  become  a  great  man,”  said  the  old  woman 
u  and  in  honor  of  him  Odense  will  one  day  be  illuminated.” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


*3 

My  mother  wept  when  she  heard  that,  and  I  obtained  per¬ 
mission  to  travel.  All  the  neighbors  told  my  mother  that  it 
was  a  dreadful  thing  to  let  me,  at  only  fourteen  years  of  age, 
go  to  Copenhagen,  which  was  such  a  long  way  off,  and  such  3 
great  and  intricate  city,  and  where  I  knew  nobody. 

“  Yes,”  replied  my  mother,  “but  he  lets  me  have  no  peace 
l  have  therefore  given  my  consent,  but  I  am  sure  that  he  will 
go  no  further  than  Nyborg :  when  he  gets  sight  of  the  rough 
sea,  he  will  be  frightened  and  turn  back  again.” 

During  the  summer  before  my  Confirmation,  a  part  of  the 
singers  and  performers  of  the  Theatre  Royal  had  been  in 
Odense,  and  had  given  a  series  of  operas  and  tragedies  there. 
The  whole  city  was  taken  with  them.  I,  who  was  on  good 
terms  with  the  man  who  delivered  the  play-bills,  saw  the 
performances  behind  the  scenes,  and  had  even  acted  a  part 
as  page,  shepherd,  etc.,  and  had  spoken  a  few  words.  My 
zeal  was  so  great  on  such  occasions,  that  I  stood  there 
fully  appareled  when  the  actors  arrived  to  dress.  By  these 
means  their  attention  was  turned  to  me  ;  my  childlike  man¬ 
ners  and  my  enthusiasm  amused  them  ;  they  talked  kindly 
with  me,  and  I  looked  up  to  them  as  to  earthly  divinities. 
Everything  which  I  had  formerly  heard  about  my  musical 
voice,  and  my  recitation  of  poetry,  became  intelligible  to  me. 
It  was  the  theatre  for  which  I  was  born  ;  it  was  there  that  I 
should  become^  famous  man,  and  for  that  reason  Copenhagen 
was  the  goal  of  my  endeavors.  I  heard  a  deal  said  about  the 
large  theatre  in  Copenhagen,  and  that  there  was  to  be  seen 
ivhat  was  called  the  ballet,  a  something  which  surpassed  both 
the  opera  and  the  play ;  more  especially  did  I  hear  the 
danseuse,  Madame  Schall,  spoken  of  as  the  first  of  all.  She 
therefore  appeared  to  me  as  the  queen  of  everything,  and  in 
my  imagination  I  regarded  her  as  the  one  who  would  be  able 
wO  do  everything  for  me,  if  I  could  only  obtain  her  support. 
Filled  with  these  thoughts,  I  went  to  the  old  printer  Iversen, 
one  of  the  most  respectable  citizens  of  Odense,  and  who,  as 
I  heard,  had  had  considerable  intercourse  with  the  actors 
when  they  were  in  the  town.  He,  I  thought,  must  of  necessity 
be  acquainted  with  the  famous  dancer  ;  him  I  would  request 
to  give  me  a  letter  of  introduction  to  her,  and  then  I  would 
commit  the  rest  to  God. 


*4 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


The  old  man  saw  me  for  the  first  time,  and  heard  my  peti¬ 
tion  with  much  kindness  ;  but  he  dissuaded  me  most  earnestly 
from  it,  and  said  that  I  might  learn  a  trade. 

“  That  would  actually  be  a  great  sin,”  returned  I. 

He  was  startled  at  the  manner  in  which  I  said  that,  and  it 
prepossessed  him  in  my  favor ;  he  confessed  that  he  was  not 
personally  acquainted  with  the  dancer,  but  still  that  he  would 
give  me  a  letter  to  her.  I  received  one  from  him,  and  now 
believed  the  goal  to  be  nearly  won. 

My  mother  packed  up  my  clothes  in  a  small  bundle,  and 
made  a  bargain  with  the  driver  of  a  post  carriage  to  take  me 
back  with  him  to  Copenhagen  for  three  rix  dollars  banco. 
The  afternoon  on  which  we  were  to  set  out  came,  and  my 
mother  accompanied  me  to  the  city  gate.  Here  stood  my 
old  grandmother  ;  in  the  last  few  years  her  beautiful  hair  had 
become  gray  ;  she  fell  upon  my  neck  and  wept,  without  being 
able  to  speak  a  word.  I  was  myself  deeply  affected.  And 
thus  we  parted.  I  saw  her  no  more  ;  she  died  in  the  follow¬ 
ing  year.  I  do  not  even  know  her  grave  ;  she  sleeps  in  the 
poor-house  burial-ground. 

The  postilion  blew  his  horn  ;  it  was  a  glorious  sunny  after¬ 
noon,  and  the  sunshine  soon  entered  into  my  gay,  child-like 
mind.  I  delighted  in  every  novel  object  which  met  my  eye, 
and  I  was  journeying  toward  the  goal  of  my  soul’s  desires. 
When,  however,  I  arrived  at  Nyborg  on  the  great  Belt,  and 
was  borne  in  the  ship  away  from  my  native  island,  I  then 
truly  felt  how  alone  and  forlorn  I  was,  and  that  I  had  no  one 
else  except  God  in  heaven  to  depend  upon. 

As  soon  as  I  set  foot  on  Zealand,  I  stepped  behind  a  shed 
which  stood  on  the  shore,  and  falling  upon  my  knees,  besought 
of  God  to  help  and  guide  me  aright ;  I  felt  myself  comforted 
by  so  doing,  and  I  firmly  trusted  in  God  and  my  own  good 
fortune.  The  whole  day  and  the  following  night  I  travelled 
through  cities  and  villages  ;  I  stood  solitarily  by  the  carriage, 
and  ate  my  bread  while  it  was  repacked.  I  thought  l  was 
far  away  in  the  wide  world. 


CHAPTER  IT. 


N  Monday  morning,  September  5th,  1819,  I  saw  from 


the  heights  of  Fredericksberg,  Copenhagen  for  the  first 
time.  At  this  place  I  alighted  from  the  carriage,  and  with  my 
little  bundle  in  my  hand,  entered  the  city  through  the  castle 
garden,  the  long  alley,  and  the  suburb. 

The  evening  before  my  arrival  had  been  made  memorable 
by  the  breaking  out  of  the  so-called  Jews’  quarrel,  which 
spread  through  many  European  countries.  The  whole  city 
was  in  commotion  everybody  was  in  the  streets  ;  the  noise 
and  tumult  of  Copenhagen  far  exceeded,  therefore,  any  idea 
which  my  imagination  had  formed  of  this,  at  that  time,  to  me 
great  city. 

With  scarcely  ten  dollars  in  my  pocket,  I  turned  into  a 
small  public-house.  My  first  ramble  was  to  the  theatre.  I 
went  round  it  many  times  :  I  looked  up  to  its  walls,  and  re¬ 
garded  them  almost  as  a  home.  One  of  the  bill-sellers,  who 
wandered  about  here  each  day,  observed  me,  and  asked  me  if 
I  would  have  a  bill.  I  was  so  wholly  ignorant  of  the  world, 
that  I  thought  the  man  wished  to  give  me  one  ;  I  therefore 
accepted  his  offer  with  thankfulness.  Tie  fancied  I  was  mak¬ 
ing  fun  of  him,  and  was  angry  ;  so  that  I  was  frightened,  and 
hastened  from  the  place  which  was  to  me  the  dearest  in  the 
city.  Little  did  1  then  imagine  that  ten  years  afterward  my 
first  dramatic  piece  would  be  represented  there,  and  that  in 
this  manner  I  should  make  my  appearance  before  the  Danish 
public. 

Oil  thc’following  day  I  dressed  myself  in  my7  confirmation 
suit,  nor  were  the  boots  forgotten,  a’though,  this  time,  they 
were  worn  naturally,  under  my  trousers  ;  and  thus  in  my  best 
attire,  with  a  hat  on,  which  fell  half  over  my  eyes,  I  hastened 
to  present  my  letter  of  introduction  to  the  dancer,  Madame 
Schall.  Before  I  rung  at  the  cell,  I  fell  on  my  knees  before 


26 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


the  door  and  prayed  God  that  I  here  might  find  help  and 
support.  A  maid-servant  came  down  the  steps  with  her  oas- 
ket  in  her  hand  ;  she  smiled  kindly  at  me,  gave  me  a  skilling 
(Danish),  and  tripped  on.  Astonished,  I  looked  at  her  and 
the  money.  I  had  on  my  confirmation  suit,  and  thought  I 
must  look  very  smart.  How  then  could  she  think  that  I 
wanted  to  beg  ?  I  called  after  her. 

“  Keep  it,  keep  it !  ”  said  she  to  me,  in  return,  and  was 
gone. 

At  length  I  was  admitted  to  the  dancer  ;  she  looked  at  me 
in  great  amazement,  and  then  heard  what  I  had  to  say.  She 
had  not  the  slightest  knowledge  of  him  from  whom  the  letter 
came,  and  my  whole  appearance  and  behavior  seemed  very 
strange  to  her.  I  confessed  to  her  my  heartfelt  inclination 
for  the  theatre  ;  and  upon  her  asking  me  what  characters  I 
thought  I  could  represent,  I  replied,  Cinderella.  This  piece 
had  been  performed  in  Odense  by  the  royal  company,  and 
the  principal  characters  had  so  greatly  taken  my  fancy,  that  I 
could  play  the  part  perfectly  from  memory.  In  the  mean  time 
I  asked  her  permission  to  take  off  my  boots,  otherwise  I  was 
not  light  enough  for  this  character ;  and  then  taking  up  my 
broad  hat  for  a  tambourine,  I  began  to  dance  and  sing,  — 

“  Here  below,  nor  rank  nor  riches 
Are  exempt  from  pain  and  woe.” 

My  strange  gestures  and  my  great  activity  caused  the  lady 
to  think  me  out  of  my  mind,  and  she  lost  no  time  in  getting 
rid  of  me. 

From  her  I  went  to  the  manager  of  the  theatre,  to  ask  for 
an  engagement.  He  looked  at  me,  and  said  that  I  was  “  too 
thin  for  the  theatre.” 

“  O,”  replied  I,  “  if  you  will  only  engage  me  with  one  hun- 
Jred  rix-dollars  banco  salary,  then  I  shall  soon  get  fat !  ” 
The  manager  bade  me  gravely  go  my  way,  addirg,  that  they 
only  engaged  people  of  education. 

I  stood  there  deeply  wounded.  I  knew  no  one  in  all 
Copenhagen  who  could  give  me  either  counsel  or  consolation. 
I  thought  of  death  as  being  the  only  thing,  and  the  best  thing 
for  me  ;  but  even  then  my  thoughts  rose  upward  to  God,  and 
with  all  the  undoubting  confidence  of  a  child  in  his  father 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


27 


they  ri/etecl  themselves  upon  Him.  I  wept  bitterly,  and  then 
I  said  to  myself,  “  When  everything  happens  quite  miserably, 
then  He  sends  help.  I  have  always  read  so.  People  must 
first  of  all  suffer  a  great  deal  before  they  can  bring  anything 
to  accomplishment.” 

I  now  went  and  bought  myself  a  gallery  ticket  for  the  opera 
of  “  Paul  and  Virginia.”  The  separation  of  the  lovers  affected 
me  to  such  a  degree,  that  I  burst  into  violent  weeping.  A  few 
women,  who  sat  near  me,  consoled  me  by  saying  that  it  was 
only  a  play,  and  nothing  to  trouble  one’s  self  about ;  and  then 
they  gave  me  a  sausage  sandwich.  I  had  the  greatest  confi¬ 
dence  in  everybody,  and  therefore  I  told  them,  with  the  ut¬ 
most  openness,  that  I  did  not  really  weep  about  Paul  and 
Virginia,  but  because  I  regarded  the  theatre  as  my  Virginia, 
and  that  if  I  must  be  separated  from  it,  I  should  be  just  as 
wretched  as  Paul.  They  looked  at  me,  and  seemed  not  to 
understand  my  meaning.  I  then  told  them  why  I  had  come 
to  Copenhagen,  and  how  forlorn  I  was  there.  One  of  the 
women,  therefore,  gave  me  more  bread  and  butter,  with  fruit 
and  cakes. 

On  the  following  morning  I  paid  my  bill,  and  to  my  infinite 
trouble  I  saw  that  my  whole  wealth  consisted  in  one  rix-dollar 
banco.  It  was  necessary,  therefore,  either  that  I  should  find 
some  vessel  to  take  me  home,  or  put  myself  to  work  with 
some  handicraftsman.  I  considered  that  the  last  was  the 
wiser  of  the  two,  because  if  I  returned  to  Odense,  [  must 
there  also  put  myself  to  work  of  a  similar  kind  ;  besides 
which,  I  knew  very  well  that  the  people  there  would  laugh  at 
me  if  I  came  back  again.  It  was  to  me  a  matter  of  indiffer¬ 
ence  what  handicraft  trade  I  learned,  —  I  only  should  make 
use  of  it  to  keep  life  within  me  in  Copenhagen.  I  bought  a 
newspaper,  therefore,  and  found  among  the  advertisements 
that  a  cabinet-maker  was  in  want  of  an  apprentice.  The  man 
received  me  kindly,  but  said  that  before  I  was  bound  to  him 
he  must  have  an  attestation,  and  my  baptismal  register  from 
Odense  ;  and  that  till  these  came  I  could  remove  to  his  house, 
*nd  try  how  the  business  pleased  me.  At  six  o  clock  the 
^ext  morning  I  went  to  the  workshop  :  several  journeymen 
were  there,  and  two  or  three  apprentices;  but  the  master  wa» 


28 


THE  STORY  OF  \IY  LIFE . 


not  come.  They  fell  into  merry  and  idle  discourse.  I  was  rj 
bashful  as  a  girl,  and  as  they  soon  perceived  this,  I  was  un¬ 
mercifully  rallied  upon  it.  Later  in  the  day  the  rude  jests  of 
the  young  fellows  went  so  far,  that,  in  remembrance  of  the 
scene  at  the  manufactory,  I  took  the  resolute  determination 
not  to  remain  a  single  day  longer  in  the  workshop.  I  went 
down  to  the  master,  therefore,  and  told  him  that  I  could  nc  t 
stand  it ;  he  tried  to  console  me,  but  in  vain  :  I  was  too  much 
affected,  and  hastened  awav. 

I  now  went  through  the  streets  ;  nobody  knew  me  ;  I  was 
quite  forlorn.  I  then  bethought  myself  of  having  read  in  a 
newspaper  in  Odense  the  name  of  an  Italian,  Siboni,  who  was 
the  director  of  the  Academy  of  Music  in  Copenhagen.  Every¬ 
body  had  praised  my  voice ;  perhaps  he  would  assist  me  for 
its  sake  ;  if  not,  then  that  very  evening  I  must  seek  out  the 
master  of  some  vessel  who  would  take  me  home  again.  At 
the  thoughts  of  the  journey  home  I  became  still  more  vio¬ 
lently  excited,  and  in  this  state  of  suffering  I  hastened  to  Si- 
boni’s  house. 

It  happened  that  very  day  that  he  had  a  iarge  party  to  din¬ 
ner  ;  our  celebrated  composer  Weyse  was  there,  the  poet  Bag- 
gesen,  and  other  guests.  The  housekeeper  opened  the  door  tc 
me,  and  to  her  I  not  only  related  my  wish  to  be  engaged  as  a 
singer,  but  also  the  whole  history  of  my  life.  She  listened  tc 
me  with  the  greatest  sympathy  and  then  she  left  me.  I  waited 
a  long  time,  and  she  must  have  been  repeating  to  the  com¬ 
pany  the  greater  part  of  what  I  had  said,  for,  in  a  while,  the 
door  opened,  and  all  the  guests  came  out  and  looked  at  me. 
They  would  have  me  to  sing,  and  Siboni  heard  me  attentively. 
I  gave  some  scenes  out  of  Holberg,  and  repeated  a  few 
poems  ;  and  then,  all  at  once,  the  sense  of  my  unhappy  con¬ 
dition  so  overcame  me  that  I  burst  into  tears ;  the  whole  com¬ 
pany  applauded. 

•  T  prophesy,”  said  Baggesen,  “  that  one  day  something 
will  come  out  of  him  ;  but  do  not  be  vain  when,  some  day, 
the  whole  public  shall  applaud  thee  !  ”  and  then  he  added 
something  about  pure,  true  nature,  and  that  this  is  too  ofter 
destroyed  by  years  and  by  intercourse  with  mankind.  I  did 
not  understand  it  all.  I  believed  implicitly  every  man’s  word 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  39 

and  that  all  wished  me  well ;  I  did  not  keep  a  though  it  my* 
self,  but  always  spoke  it  right  out. 

Siboni  promised  to  cultivate  my  voice,  and  that  J  therefore 
should  succeed  as  singer  at  the  Theatre  Royal.  It  made  me 
very  happy  ;  I  laughed  and  wept ;  and  as  the  housekeeper 
led  me  out  and  saw  the  excitement  under  which  I  labored,  she 
stroked  my  cheeks,  and  said  that  on  the  following  dav  I 
should  go  to  Professor  Weyse,  who  meant  to  go  something 
for  me,  and  upon  whom  I  could  depend. 

I  went  to  Weyse,  who  himself  had  risen  from  poverty ;  he 
had  deeply  felt  and  fully  comprehended  my  unhappy  situa¬ 
tion,  and  had  raised  by  a  subscription  seventy  rix-dollars 
banco  for  me.  I  then  wrote  my  first  letter  to  my  mother,  a 
letter  full  of  rejoicing,  for  the  good  fortune  of  die  whole  world 
seemed  poured  upon  me.  My  mother  in  her  joy  showed  my 
letter  to  all  her  friends  ;  many  heard  of  it  with  astonishment ; 
others  laughed  at  it,  for  what  was  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  In 
order  to  understand  Siboni  it  was  necessary  for  me  to  learn 
something  of  German.  A  woman  of  Copenhagen,  with  whom  I 
travelled  from  Odense  to  this  city,  and  who  gladly  would  have, 
supported  me,  had  her  means  permitted,  obtained,  through 
one  of  her  acquaintance,  a  language-master>  who  gratuitously 
gave  me  some  German  lessons,  and  thus  I  learned  a  few 
phrases  in  that  language.  Siboni  received  me  into  his  house, 
and  gave  me  food  and  instruction.  He  had  an  Italian  cook 
and  two  smart  servant-girls  ;  one  of  them  had  been  in  Mr. 
Casorti’s  service  and  spoke  Italian  :  I  spent  the  day  with 
them,  willingly  ran  their  errands  and  listened  to  their  stories  : 
but  one  day  having  been  sent  by  them  to  the  dinner-table 
with  one  of  the  dishes,  Mr.  Siboni  arose,  went  out  in  the 
kitchen,  and  said  to  the  servants  that  1  was  no  “  cameriere  ;  ” 
and  from  that  time  I  came  oftener  into  the  parlor,  where  his 
niece  Marietta,  a‘ girl  of  talent,  was  occupied  in  drawing  Si- 
boni’s  picture  as  Achilles  in  Paer’s  opera  ;  I  acted  as  model, 
dressed  in  a  large  tunic  or  toga,  fit  for  the  tall  and  strong  Si- 
ooni,  but  not  for  me,  a  poor,  lean,  overgrown  boy  ;  this  con¬ 
trast,  however,  amused  the  lively  Italian  lady,  who  laughed 
heartily  and  drew  with  great  rapidity. 

The  opera  singers  came  daily  for  practice,  and  sometimes 
t  was  allowed  to  be  present. 


30 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


t(  II  maestro  ”  became  sometimes  under  the  singing  so  dis¬ 
contented  that  his  Italian  blood  flew  up  into  his  cheeks,  and 
he  burst  out  violently  in  German  or  in  queer  Danish.  A1 
though  it  did  not  concern  me,  I  was  so  frightened  that  I  shiv¬ 
ered  in  all  my  limbs.  He  on  whom  I  believed  my  whole  fu¬ 
ture  was  depending,  made  me  shake  with  fear,  and  sometimes, 
when  he  was  giving  me  a  lesson,  his  severe  look  would  make 
my  voice  to  quiver  and  bring  tears  into  my  eyes. 

“  Hikke  banke  Du  ”  (I  shall  not  beafi  you),  said  he  in 
broken  Danish  and  let  me  go  ;  but  calling  me  back  again  he 
put  some  money  into  my  hand,  “to  amuse  yourself  with,”  said 
he.  with  a  kind-hearted  smile. 

After  all,  I  have  since  understood  that  Mr.  Siboni  was  an 
excellent  singing-master,  the  founder  of  a  good  school  of  dra¬ 
matic  singing,  but  not  so  esteemed  by  the  public  as  he  deserved 
to  be.  Most  people  looked  on  him  as  a  foreigner,  who  was 
eating  bread  that  might  just  as  well  have  been  given  to  a  na¬ 
tive,  not  knowing  that  among  the  natives  there  was  not  one 
so  good  and  able  as  he. 

The  Italian  operas,  which  at  that  time  had  a  great  reputa¬ 
tion  throughout  Europe,  and  were  brought  upon  our  stage  by 
Siboni,  were  received  with  hostility  only  because  they  were 
Italian  operas  and  Mr.  Siboni  an  Italian.  “  Gazza  badra  ” 
was  hissed,  also  “  La  Straniera,”  and  when  Siboni  at  his  ben¬ 
efit  had  chosen  Paer’s  German  opera,  “  Die  Rache  des  Achil¬ 
les,”  in  which  he  played  the  chief  part,  he  was  hissed.  The 
injustice  of  this  and  Siboni’s  great  merit  have  been,  since  his 
death,  acknowledged  by  many,  who  at  that  time  despised  and 
overlooked  compositions  of  Rossini  and  Bellini,  but  a  few 
years  after  were  applauding  Verdi  and  Ricci,  and  it  went  so 
far  finally  that  no  music  or  singing  were  of  any  value  except 
they  were  Italian  ;  but  Mr.  Siboni  did  not  live  to  see  that 
change.  » 

He  tried  with  his  whole  soul  to  teach  his  pupils  not  only  to 
sing,  but  also  *o  understand  and  conceive  the  character  they 
were  representing.  He  was  in  want  of  words  to  express  him¬ 
self  in  the  German  language,  and  the  Danish  he  knew  far  less. 
Most  of  the  singers  could  only  understand  one  of  those  Ian* 
^uages,  and  this  often  occasioned  comical  scenes. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Half  a  year  afterward  my  voice  broke,  or  was  injured,  in 
consequence  of  my  being  compelled  to  wear  bad  shoes  through 
the  winter,  and  having  besides  no  warm  under-clothing.  There 
was  no  longer  any  prospect  that  1  should  become  a  fine  singer. 
Siboni  told,  me  that  candidly,  and  counseled  me  to  go  ic? 
Odense,  and  there  learn  a  trade. 

I  who  in  the  rich  colors  of  fancy  had  described  to  m) 
mother  the  happiness  which  I  actually  felt,  must  now  return 
home  and  become  an  object  of  derision  !  Agonized  with  this 
thought,  I  stood  as  if  crushed  to  the  earth.  Yet,  precisely 
amid  this  apparently  great  unhappiness  lay  the  stepping-stones 
of  a  better  fortune. 

As  I  found  myself  again  abandoned,  and  was  pondering  by 
myself  upon  what  was  best  for  me  next  to  do,  it  occurred 
to  me  that  the  Poet  Guldberg,  a  brother  of  the  Colonel  of  that 
name  in  Odense,  who  had  shown  me  so  much  kindness,  lived 
in  Copenhagen.  He  lived  at  that  time  near  the  new  church¬ 
yard  outside  the  city,  of  which  he  has  so  beautifully  sung  in 
his  poems.  I  wrote  to  him,  and  related  to  him  everything  ; 
afterward  I  went  to  him  myself,  and  found  him  surrounded 
with  books  and  tobacco  pipes.  The  strong,  warm-hearted 
man  received  me  kindly  ;  and  as  he  saw  by  my  letter  how  in¬ 
correctly  I  wrote,  he  promised  to  give  me  instruction  in  the 
Danish  tongue ;  he  examined  me  a  little  in  German,  and 
thought  that  it  would  be  well  if  he  could  improve  me  in  this 
respect  also.  More  than  this,  he  made  me  a  present  of  the 
profits  of  a  little  work  which  he  had  just  then  published  ;  it 
became  known,  and  I  believe  they  exceeded  one  hundred  rix- 
Jollars  banco  ;  the  excellent  Weyse  and  others  also  supported 
me.  He  and  other  good  people  subscribed  a  little  sum  for  me, 
and  the  two  servant-girls  who  lived  at  Siboni’s  also  offered  me 
kindly  of  their  wages  nine  Danish  marks  quarterly  ;  they  only 
paid  the  first  quarter,  but  still  it  proved  their  good-will  toward 
me.  I  have  never  since  seen  these  girls. 

The  composer,  Mr.  Kuhlau,  with  whom  1  never  had  spoken, 
was  also  among  the  subscribers  ;  Kuhlau  himself  had  known 
what  it  was  to  be  a  poor  child  ;  he  w^as  brought  up  in  poverty, 
and  it  is  told  me,  that  he  ran  errands  in  the  cold  winter,  and 
one  evening,  having  gone  for  2.  bottle  of  beer,  he  fell  and  broke 


32  THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 

the  bottle,  and  by  the  accident  lost  the  sight  of  one  of  his 
eyes. 

It  was  too  expensive  for  me  to  lodge  at  a  public-house ;  3 
was  therefore  obliged  to  seek  for  private  lodgings.  My  igno* 
ranee  of  the  world  led  me  to  a  widow  who  lived  in  one  cf  the 
most  disreputable  streets  of  Copenhagen  ;  she  was  inclined  to 
receive  me  into  her  house,  and  I  never  suspected  what  kind 
of  world  it  was  which  moved  around  me.  She  was  a  stern 
but  active  dame  ;  she  described  to  me  the  other  people  of  the 
city  in  such  horrible  colors  as  made  me  suppose  that  I  was  in 
the  only  safe  haven  there.  I  was  to  pay  twenty  rix-dollars 
monthly  for  one  room,  which  was  nothing  but  an  empty  store¬ 
room,  without  window  or  light,  but  I  had  permission  to  sit 
in  her  parlor.  I  was  to  make  trial  of  it  at  first  for  two  days , 
meantime,  on  the  following  day  she  told  me  that  I  could  de¬ 
cide  to  stay  or  immediately  go.  I,  who  so  easily  attach  my¬ 
self  to  people,  already  liked  her,  and  felt  myself  at  home  with 
her  ;  but  more  than  sixteen  dollars  per  month  Weyse  had 
told  me  I  must  not  pay,  and  this  was  the  sum  which  I  had 
received  from  him  and  Guldberg,  so  that  no  surplus  remained 
to  me  for  my  other  expenses.  This  troubled  me  very  much  ; 
when  she  was  gone  out  of  the  room,  I  seated  myself  on  the 
sofa,  and  contemplated  the  portrait  of  her  deceased  husband. 
I  was  so  wholly  a  child,  that  as  the  tears  rolled  down  my  own 
cheeks,  I  wetted  the  eyes  of  the  portrait  with  my  tears,  in 
order  that  the  dead  man  might  feel  how  troubled  I  was,  and 
influence  the  heart  of  his  wife.  She  must  have  seen  that 
nothing  more  was  to  be  drained  out  of  me,  for  when  she  re¬ 
turned  to  the  room  she  said  that  she  would  receive  me  into 
her  house  for  the  sixteen  rix-dollars.  I  thanked  God  and  the 
dead  man. 

The  following  day  I  brought  her  all  the  money,  very  happy 
now  at  finding  a  home,  but  not  leaving  for  myself  a  single 
skilling  to  buy  me  shoes,  clothes,  or  other  necessities,  of  which 
I  was  in  great  want. 

I  found  myself  in  the  midst  of  the  mysteries  of  Copenha¬ 
gen,  but  I  did  not  understand  how  to  interpret  them.  There 
was  in  the  house  in  which  I  lived  a  friendly  young  lady,  who 
lived  alone,  and  often  wept;  every  evening  her  old  father 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


33 

fame  and  paid  her  a  visit.  I  opened  the  door  to  him  fre¬ 
quently  ;  he  wore  a  plain  sort  of  coat,  had  his  throat  very 
much  tied  up,  and  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes.  He  always 
drank  his  tea  with  her,  and  nobody  dared  to  be  present,  be¬ 
cause  he  was  not  fond  of  company :  she  never  seemed  very 
glad  at  his  coming.  Many  years  afterward,  when  I  had 
reached  another  step  on  the  ladder  of  life,  when  the  refined 
world  of  fashionable  life  was  opened  before  me,  I  saw  one 
evening,  in  the  midst  of  a  brilliantly  lighted  hall,  a  polite  old 
gentleman  covered  with  orders  :  that  was  the  old  father  in 
the  shabby  coat,  —  he  whom  I  had  let  in.  He  had  little  idea 
that  I  had  opened  the  door  to  him  when  he  played  his  part 
as  guest,  but  I,  on  my  side,  then  had  also  no  thought  but  for 
my  own  comedy-playing  ;  that  is  to  say,  I  was  at  that  time  so 
much  of  a  child  that  I  played  with  my  puppet  theatre  and 
made  my  dolls’  clothes  ;  and  in  order  that  I  might  obtain 
gayly  colored  fragments  for  this  purpose,  I  used  to  go  to  the 
shops  and  ask  for  patterns  of  different  kinds  of  stuffs  and  rib¬ 
bons.  I  myself  did  not  possess  a  single  skilling  ;  my  land¬ 
lady  received  all  the  money  each  month  in  advance ;  only 
now  and  then,  when  I  did  any  errands  for  her,  she  gave  me 
something,  and  that  went  in  the  purchase  of  paper  or  for  old 
play-books.  I  got  many  good  and  amusing  books  from  the 
University  Library.  One  day  I  went  up  to  the  University 
Dean,  old  Mr.  Rasmus  Nyrup,  who  was  son  of  a  peasant  and 
had  studied  at  Odense  grammar  school,  and  told  him  that  I 
also  was  from  Odense  ;  he  was  struck  by  my  peculiarities, 
took  me  into  his  favor,  and  allowed  me  to  go  and  look  over 
the  books  in  the  library  at  the  Round  Church.  He  only  com¬ 
manded  me  to  put  them  again  in  their  right  place,  and  that  I 
did  very  conscientiously.  He  let  me  also  take  home  with  me 
many  picture-books. 

I  was  now  very  happy,  and  was  doubly  so  because  Professor 
Guldberg  had  induced  Lindgron,  the  first  comic  actor  at  the 
theatre,  to  give  me  instruction.  He  gave  me  several  parts  in 
Iiolberg  to  learn,  —  such  as  Hendrik  and  the  Silly  Boy,  for 
which  I  had  shown  some  talent.  My  desire,  however,  was  to 
play  the  “  Correggio.”  I  obtained  permission  to  learn  this 
piece  in  my  own  way,  although  Lindgron  asked,  with  comic 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


34 

gravity,  whether  I  expected  to  resemble  the  great  painter )  1, 

however,  repeated  to  him  the  soliloquy  in  the  picture  gallery 
with  so  much  feeling,  that  the  old  man  clapped  me  on  the 
shoulder  and  said,  “  Feeling  you  have  ;  but  you  must  not  be 
an  actor,  though  God  knows  what  else.  Speak  to  Guldberg 
about  your  learning  Latin :  that  always  opens  the  way  for  a 
student.” 

I  a  student  !  That  was  a  thought  which  had  never  come 
before  into  my  head.  The  theatre  lay  nearer  to  me,  and  was 
dearer  too  ;  yet  Latin  I  had  also  always  wished  to  learn. 
But  before  I  spoke  on  the  subject  to  Guldberg,  I  mentioned 
it  to  the  lady  who  obtained  for  me  gratuitous  instruction  in 
German  ;  she  told  me  that  Latin  was  the  most  expensive 
language  in  the  world,  and  that  it  was  not  possible  to  gain  free 
instruction  in  it.  Guldberg,  however,  managed  it  so  that  one 
of  his  friends,  Provost  Bentzien  out  of  kindness,  gave  me  two 
lessons  a  week. 

The  dancer,  Dahlen,  whose  wife  at  that  time  was  one  of  the 
first  artistes  on  the  Danish  boards,  opened  his  house  to  me. 
I  passed  many  an  evening  there,  and  the  gentle,  warm-hearted 
lady  was  kind  to  me.  The  husband  took  me  with  him  to  the 
dancing-school,  and  that  was  to  me  one  step  nearer  to  the 
theatre.  There  stood  I  for  whole  mornings,  with  a  long  staff, 
and  stretched  my  legs  ;  but  notwithstanding  all  my  good-will, 
it  was  Dahlen’s  opinion  that  I  should  never  get  beyond  a 
figurante.  One  advantage,  however,  I  had  gained  ;  I  might 
in  an  evening  make  my  appearance  behind  the  scenes  of  the 
theatre  ;  nay,  even  sit  upon  the  farthest  bench  in  the  box  of 
the  figurantes.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  had  got  my  foot  just 
within  the  theatre,  although  I  had  never  yet  been  upon  the 
stage  itself. 

One  night  the  operetta  of  the  “  Two  Tattle  Savoyards  ”  was 
given  ;  in  the  market  scene,  every  one,  even  the  supernumer¬ 
aries,  might  go  up  to  help  in  filling  the  stage  ;  I  heard  them 
say  so,  and  rouging  myself  a  little,  I  went  happily  up  with  the 
others.  I  was  in  my  ordinary  dress,  —  the  confirmation  coat, 
which  still  held  together,  although,  with  regard  to  brushing 
and  repairs,  it  looked  but  miserably,  and  the  great  hat  which 
fell  down  over  my  face.  I  was  very  conscious  of  the  ill 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


35 

condition  of  my  attire,  and  would  have  been  glad  to  have  con¬ 
cealed  it  ;  but,  through  the  endeavor  to  do  so,  my  movements 
became  still  more  angular.  I  did  not  dare  to  hold  myself  up 
right,  because,  by  so  doing,  I  exhibited  all  the  more  plainly 
the  shortness  of  my  waistcoat,  which  I  had  outgrown.  I  had 
the  feeling  very  plainly  that  people  would  make  themselves 
merry  about  me  ;  yet,  at  this  moment,  I  felt  nothing  but  the 
happiness  of  stepping  for  the  first  time  before  the  foot-lamps. 
My  heart  beat ;  I  stepped  forward ;  there  came  up  one  of  the 
singers,  who  at  that  time  was  much  thought  of,  but  now  is 
forgotten  ;  he  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  jeeringly  wished  me 
happiness  on  my  debut.  “  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  the 
Danish  public,”  said  he,  and  drew  me  forward  to  the  lamps. 
The  people  would  laugh  at  me  —  I  felt  it ;  the  tears  rolled 
down  my  cheeks  ;  I  tore  myself  loose,  and  left  the  stage  full 
of  anguish. 

Shortly  after  this,  Dahlen  arranged  a  ballet  of  “  Armida,”  in 
which  I  received  a  little  part :  I  was  a  spirit.  In  this  ballet  I 
became  acquainted  with  the  lady  of  Professor  Heiberg,  the 
wife  of  the  poet,  and  now  a  highly  esteemed  actress  on  the 
Danish  stage ;  she,  then  a  little  girl,  had  also  a  part  in  it,  and 
our  names  stood  printed  in  the  bill.  That  was  a  moment  in 
my  life,  when  my  name  was  printed  !  I  fancied  I  could  see 
in  it  a  nimbus  of  immortality.  I  was  continually  looking  at 
the  printed  paper.  I  carried  the  programme  of  the  ballet  with 
me  at  night  to  bed,  lay  and  read  my  name  by  candle-light  — 
in  short,  I  was  happy  ! 

I  had  now  been  two  years  in  Copenhagen.  The  sum  of 
money  which  had  been  collected  for  me  was  expended,  but  I 
was  ashamed  of  making  known  my  wants  and  my  necessities. 
I  had  removed  to  the  house  of  a  woman  whose  husband,  when 
living,  was  master  of  a  trading-vessel,  and  there  I  had  only 
lodging  and  breakfast.  Those  were  heavy,  dark  days,  for  me. 
The  lady  believed  that  I  went  out  to  dine  with  various  families, 
whilst  I  onlv  ate  a  little  bread  on  one  of  the  benches  in  the 
royal  garden.  Very  rarely  did  I  venture  into  some  of  the 
lowest  eating-houses,  and  choose  there  the  least  expensive  dish. 
I  was,  in  truth,  very  forlorn  ;  but  I  did  not  feel  the  whole 
weight  of  my  condition.  Every  person  who  spoke  to  me  kindly 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


& 

I  took  for  a  faithful  friend.  God  was  with  me  in  my  littia 
room  ;  and  many  a  night,  when  I  have  said  my  evening  prayer, 
[  asked  of  Him,  like  a  child,  “Will  things  soon  be  better  with 
me?”  I  had  the  notion,  that  as  it  went  with  me  on  New 
Year’s  Day,  so  would  it  go  with  me  through  the  whole  year  ; 
%nd  my  highest  wishes  were  to  obtain  a  part  in  a  play. 

It  was  now  New  Year’s  Day.  The  theatre  was  closed,  and 
Dnly  a  half-blind  porter  sat  at  the  entrance  to  the  stage,  on 
which  there  was  not  a  soul.  I  stole  past  him  with  beating 
heart,  got  between  the  movable  scenes  and  the  curtain,  and 
advanced  to  the  open  part  of  the  stage.  Here  I  fell  down 
upon  my  knees,  but  not  a  single  verse  for  declamation  could  I 
recall  to  my  memory.  I  then  said  aloud  the  Lord’s  Prayer, 
and  went  out  with  the  persuasion,  that  because  I  had  spoken 
from  the  stage  on  New  Year’s  Day,  I  should  in  the  course  of 
the  year  succeed  in  speaking  still  more,  as  well  as  in  having  a 
part  assigned  to  me. 

During  the  two  years  of  my  residence  in  Copenhagen  I  had 
never  been  out  into  the  open  country.  Once  only  had  I  been 
in  the  park,  and  there  I  had  been  deeply  engrossed  by  study¬ 
ing  the  diversions  of  the  people  and  their  gay  tumult.  In  the 
spring  of  the  third  year,  I  went  out  for  the  first  time  amid  the 
verdure  of  a  spring  morning.  It  was  into  the  garden  of  the 
Fredericksberg,  the  summer  residence  of  Frederick  VI.  I 
stood  still  suddenly  under  the  first  large  budding  beech-tree. 
The  sun  made  the  leaves  transparent  —  there  was  a  fragrance, 
a  freshness  —  the  birds  sang.  I  was  overcome  by  it  —  I 
shouted  aloud  for  joy,  threw  my  arms  around  the  tree,  and 
kissed  it. 

“  Is  he  mad  ?  ”  said  a  man  close  behind  me.  It  was  cne  of 
the  servants  of  the  castle.  I  ran  away,  shocked  at  what  I  had 
heard,  and  then  went  thoughtfully  and  calmly  back  to  the  city. 

My  voice  had,  in  the  mean  time,  in  part  regained  its  rich¬ 
ness.  The  singing-master  of  the  choir-school  heard  it,  offered 
me  a  place  in  the  school,  thinking  that,  by  singing  with  the 
choir,  I  should  acquire  greater  freedom  in  the  exercise  of  my 
powers  on  the  stage.  I  thought  that  I  could  see  by  this 
means  a  new  way  opened  for  me.  I  went  from  the  dancing- 
ichool  into  the  singing-school,  and  entered  the  choir,  now  as  y 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


37 


shepherd,  and  now  as  a  warrior.  The  theatre  was  my  woild, 
I  had  permission  to  enter  the  pit,  and  thus  it  fared  ill  with  my 
Latin.  I  heard  many  people  say  that  there  was  no  Latin  re¬ 
quired  for  singing  in  the  choir,  and  that  without  the  knowl¬ 
edge  of  this  language  it  was  possible  to  become  a  great  actor. 
I  thought  there  was  good  sense  in  that,  and  very  often,  either 
with  or  without  reason,  excused  myself  from  my  Latin  even¬ 
ing  lesson.  Guldberg  became  aware  of  this,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  received  a  reprimand  which  almost  crushed  me  to  the 
earth.  I  fancy  that  no  criminal  could  suffer  more  by  hearing 
the  sentence  of  death  pronounced  upon  him.  My  distress  of 
mind  must  have  expressed  itself  in  my  countenance,  for  he 
said,  “Do  not  act  any  more  comedy.”  But  it  was  no  comedy 
to  me. 

I  was  now  to  learn  Latin  no  longer.  I  felt  my  dependence 
upon  the  kindness  of  others  in  such  a  degree  as  I  had  never 
done  before.  Occasionally  I  had  had  gloomy  and  earnest 
thoughts  in  looking  forward  to  my  future,  because  I  was  in 
want  of  the  very  necessaries  of  life  ;  at  other  times  I  had  the 
perfect  thoughtlessness  of  a  child. 

The  widow  of  the  celebrated  Danish  statesman,  Christian 
Colbjornsen,  and  her  daughter,  were  the  first  ladies  of  high 
rank  who  cordially  befriended  the  poor  lad  ;  who  listened  to 
me  with  sympathy,  and  saw  me  frequently.  Mrs.  von  Col- 
bjornsen  resided,  during  the  summer,  at  Bakkehus,  where  also 
lived  the  poet  Rahbek  and  his  interesting  wife.  Rahbek 
never  spoke  to  me  ;  but  his  lively  and  kind-hearted  wife  often 
amused  herself  with  me.  I  had  at  that  time  again  begun  to 
write  a  tragedy,  which  I  read  aloud  to  her.  Immediately  on 
hearing  the  first  scenes,  she  exclaimed,  “  But  you  have  actu¬ 
ally  taken  whole  passages  out  of  Oehlenschlager  and  Inge- 
mann.” 

u  Yes,  but  they  are  so  beautiful  !  ”  replied  I  in  my  simplic- 
ty,  and  read  on. 

One  day,  when  I  was  going  from  her  to  Mrs.  von  Colbjorn- 
sen,  she  gave  me  a  handful  of  roses,  and  said,  “  Will  you  take 
them  up  to  her  ?  It  will  certainly  give  her  pleasure  to  receive 
them  from  the  hand  of  a  poet.” 

These  words  were  said  half  in  jest ;  but  it  was  the  first 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


38 

time  that  anybody  had  connected  my  name  with  that  of  po€t 
It  went  through  me,  body  and  soul,  and  tears  filled  my  eyes. 
I  know  that,  from  this  very  moment,  my  mind  was  awoke  to 
writing  and  poetry.  Formerly  it  had  been  merely  an  amuse¬ 
ment  by  way  of  variety  from  my  puppet  theatre. 

One  day  I  went  out  to  Bakkehus  believing  myself  very  nicely 
dressed  ;  Edward  Colbjornsen  had  given  me  a  very  good  blue 
dress-coat,  better  than  I  ever  before  had  worn,  but  it  was  too 
large  and  wide  for  me,  especially  across  the  breast  ;  I  could 
not  afford  to  get  it  altered,  and  so  I  buttoned  it  close  up  to 
the  neck  ;  the  cloth  looked  quite  new  and  the  buttons  were 
shining,  but  across  the  breast  it  was  far  too  wide  ;  in  order  to 
remedy  this  want,  I  filled  out  the  empty  room  with  a  heap  of 
old  theatre  hand-bills  :  they  were  loosely  laid  one  upon  another 
between  the  coat  and  the  breast,  and  looked  like  a  hump.  In 
this  attire  I  presented  mvself  to  Madame  Colbjornsen  and 
Madame  Rahbek  ;  they  asked  me  if  I  would  not  unbutton  my 
coat,  it  was  so  warm,  but  I  took  pretty  good  care  not  to  for 
fear  of  dropping  the  hand-bills. 

At  Bakkehus  lived  also  Professor  Thiele,  a  young  student 
at  that  time,  but  even  then  the  editor  of  the  Danish  popular 
legends,  and  known  to  the  public  as  the  solver  of  Baggcsen’s 
liddle  and  as  the  writer  of  beautiful  poetry.  He  was  pos¬ 
sessed  of  sentiment,  true  inspiration,  and  heart.  He  had  calmly 
and  attentively  watched  the  unfolding  of  my  mind,  until  we 
now  became  friends.  He  was  one  of  the  few  who,  at  that 
time,  spoke  the  truth  of  me,  when  other  people  were  making 
themselves  merry  at  my  expense,  and  having  only  eyes  for 
that  which  was  ludicrous  in  me.  People  had  called  me,  in 
jest,  the  little  orator,  and,  as  such,  I  was  an  object  of  curios¬ 
ity.  They  found  amusement  in  me,  and  I  mistook  every  smile 
for  a  smile  of  applause.  One  of  my  later  friends  has  told  me 
that  it  probably  was  about  this  period  that  he  saw  me  for  the 
first  time.  It  was  in  the  drawing-room  of  a  rich  tradesman, 
where  people  were  making  themselves  very  merry  over  me. 
They  desired  me  to  repeat  one  of  my  poemb,  and,  as  I  did 
this  with  great  feeling,  the  merriment  was  changed  into  sym 
pathy  with  me. 

I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  I  found  a  retreat,  if  I  may 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIEF. 


39 

call  it  so,  —  a  cozy  little  room,  where  the  voices  of  earlier  days 
sounded  in  my  heart ;  it  was  in  the  house  of  a  worthv  old 
lady,  the  mother  of  our  renowned,  now  deceased,  Urban  Jiir- 
gensen  ;  she  had  a  very  clear  judgment  and  was  well  edu¬ 
cated,  but  belonged  to  the  last  generation,  in  which  she  still 
lived.  Her  father  had  formerly  been  castellan  of  the  castle 
of  Antvorskov,  and  Holberg  used  to  come  there  on  Sundays 
from  Soro  ;  he  and  her  father  would  walk  up  and  down  the 
floor  talking  together  about  politics  ;  one  day  the  mother  sit¬ 
ting  at  the  spinning-wheel  undertook  to  share  in  the  conversa¬ 
tion  :  “  I  believe  the  distaff  is  talking,”  said  Holberg,  and 
her  mother  could  never  forgive  the  witty,  coarse  gentleman 
these  words  !  The  one  who  was  then  a  little  child,  now  sitting 
an  old,  old  woman  by  me,  told  me  all  these  things. 

The  poet  Wessel  also  resorted  to  her  house,  and  made 
great  fun  of  the  fop,  Mr.  Reiser,  whose  horrible  fire-stories 
we  all  know;  he  let  the  poor  man  one  day  go  home  through 
the  dirty  streets  in  shoes  and  silk  stockings. 

She  read  daily  her,  classics,  —  Corneille  and  Racine,  —  and 
spoke  with  me  of  them,  of  their  great  thoughts  and  the  charac¬ 
ters  they  drew ;  she  had  no  admiration  for  modern  romantic 
poetry. 

With  a  mother’s  warm  affection  she  spoke  of  her  exiled  son, 
who  in  the  war  had  so  adventurously  proclaimed  himself  King 
of  Iceland,  and  therefore  dared  never  return  to  Denmark  ;  she 
understood  well  how  to  describe  his  character  and  will  as  they 
showed  themselves  in  his  childhood. 

How  attractive  that  old  woman’s  company  was  to  me  !  I 
listened  to  all  she  had  seen,  thought,  and  read,  and  I  was  in 
her  house  as  a  dear  child  whom  she  loved  to  have  near  her. 

I  read  her  my  first  verses,  and  my  tragedy,  “  Skovkapellet  ” 

( “  The  Chapel  in  the  Wood  ”),  and  she  said  one  day,  with  an 
earnestness  that  made  me  humble  :  “You  are  a  poet,  perhaps 
as  good  as  Oehlenschlager  !  in  ten  years — yes,  when  I  am  no 
longer  here  —  please  to  remember  me!”  I  remembtr  that 
tears  rushed  to  my  eyes,  I  was  so  solemnly  and  wonderfully 
touched  by  these  words  ;  but  I  know  also  that  I  thought  it 
impossible  for  me  to  reach  so  high  as  to  be  an  acknowledged 
poet,  and  far  less  to  be  named  with  Oehlenschlager.  “  What 


40 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


t  good  thing  it  would  be  for  you  to  study,’  said  she  ;  “  but 
many  ways  lead  toward  Rome  !  your  way  will  no  doubt  also 
bring  you  there.” 

I  heard  it  said  every  day,  what  a  good  thing  it  would  be  for 
me  if  I  could  study.  People  advised  me  to  devote  myself  to 
science,  but  no  one  moved  one  step  to  enable  me  to  do  so  ;  A 
was  labor  enough  for  me  to  keep  body  and  soul  together.  It 
therefore  occurred  to  me  to  write  a  tragedy,  which  I  would  offer 
to  the  Theatre  Royal,  and  would  then  begin  to  study  with  the 
monev  which  I  should  thus  obtain.  Whilst  Guldberg  in- 
structed  me  in  Danish,  I  had  written  a  tragedy  from  a  Ger¬ 
man  story,  called  “  The  Chapel  in  the  Wood  ;  ”  yet  as  this 
was  done  merely  as  an  exercise  in  the  language,  and  as  he 
forbade  me  in  the  most  decided  manner  to  bring  it  out,  1 
would  not  do  so.  I  originated  my  own  material,  therefore ; 
and  within  fourteen  days  I  wrote  my  national  tragedy  called 
the  “  Robbers  in  Wissenberg  ”  (the  name  of  a  little  village  in 
Funen).  There  was  scarcely  a  word  in  it  correctly  written, 
as  I  had  no  person  to  help  me,  because  I  meant  it  to  be  anony¬ 
mous  ;  there  was,  nevertheless,  one  person  admitted  into  the 
secret,  namely,  the  young  lady  whom  I  had  met  with  in 
Odense,  during  my  preparation  for  Confirmation,  —  the  only 
one  who  at  that  time  showed  me  kindness  and  good-will.  It 
was  through  her  that  I  was  introduced  to  the  Colbjornsen  fam¬ 
ily,  and  thus  known  and  received  in  all  those  circles  of  which 
the  one  leads  into  the  other.  She  paid  some  one  to  prepare 
a  legible  copy  of  my  piece,  and  undertook  to  present  it  for  pe¬ 
rusal.  After  an  interval  of  six  weeks,  I  received  it  back,  ac¬ 
companied  by  a  letter  which  said  that  people  did  not  fre¬ 
quently  wish  to  retain  works  which  betrayed,  in  so  great  a  de¬ 
gree,  a  want  of  elementary  knowledge. 

It  was  just  at  the  close  of  the  theatrical  season,  in  May, 
1822,  that  I  received  a  letter  from  the  directors,  by  which  I 
was  dismissed  from  the  singing  and  dancing  school,  the  let¬ 
ter  adding  also,  that  my  participation  in  the  school  teaching 
could  lead  to  no  advantage  for  me,  but  that  they  wished  some 
of  my  many  friends  would  enable  me  to  receive  an  education, 
without  which  talent  availed  nothing.  I  felt  myself  again,  as 
it  were,  cast  out  into  the  wide  world,  without  help  and  withou* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


41 


5upi>ort.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  write  a 
piece  for  the  theatre,  and  that  it  must  be  accepted  ;  there  was 
no  other  salvation  for  me.  I  wrote,  therefore,  a  tragedy 
founded  on  a  passage  in  history,  and  I  called  it  “  Alfsol.”  I 
was  delighted  with  the  first  act,  and  with  this  I  immediately 
went  to  the  Danish  translator  of  Shakespeare,  Admiral  Wulff, 
now  deceased,  who  good-naturedly  heard  me  read  it.  In  Ad¬ 
miral  Wulff’ s  house  and  in  his  family  circle  I  found  a  true 
home.  Speaking  of  our  first  acquaintance,  he  told  me  many 
years  afterward  in  joke,  and  exaggerating  it  a  little,  that  I  said 
entering  the  room  :  “  You  have  translated  Shakespeare  ;  I  ad¬ 
mire  him  greatly,  but  I  have  also  written  a  tragedy :  shall  I 
read  it  to  vou  ?  ” 

J 

Wulff  invited  me  to  breakfast  with  him,  but  I  would  not 
take  anything,  but  read  and  read  all  the  time,  and  having 
finished  my  reading  I  said  :  “  Do  you  think  I  shall  amount  to 
anything,  —  I  wish  it  so  much  ?  ”  I  put  my  papers  into  my 
pocket,  and  when  he  asked  me  to  call  again  soon,  I  answered, 
“  Yes,  I  will,  when  I  have  written  a  new  tragedy.”  —  “  But  that 
will  be  along  time,”  said  he.  “I  think,”  said  J,  “  that  in  a 
fortnight  I  may  have  another  one  ready,”  and  with  these  words 
I  was  out  of  the  door.  In  after  years  I  met  with  the  most  cor¬ 
dial  reception  in  his  family.  At  that  time  I  also  introduced 
myself  to  our  celebrated  physicist  Orsted,  and  his  house  has 
temained  to  me  to  this  day  an  affectionate  home,  to  which  my 
heart  has  firmly  attached  itself,  and  where  I  fin. I  my  oldest 
and  most  unchangeable  friends. 

A  favorite  preacher,  the  rural  dean  Gutfeldt.  was  living  at 
that  time,  and  he  it  was  who  exerted  himself  most  earnestly 
for  my  tragedy,  which  was  now  finished  ;  and  having  written 
a  letter  of  recommendation,  he  sent  it  to  the  managers  of  the 
theatre.  I  was  suspended  between  hope  and  fear.  In  the 
course  of  the  summer  I  endured  bitter  want,  but  I  told  it  to 
no  one,  else  many  a  one,  whose  sympathy  I  had  experienced, 
voulcJ  have  helped  me  to  the  utmost  of  their  means.  A  false 
shame  prevented  me  from  confessing  what  I  endured.  Still 
happiness  filled  my  heart.  I  read  then  for  the  first  time  the 
works  of  Walter  Scott.  A  new  world  was  opened  to  me:  I 
forgot  the  reality,  and  gave  to  the  circulating  library  that 
which  should  have  provided  me  with  a  dinner. 


4* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


The  present  conference  councilor,  Collin,  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  men  of  Denmark,  who  unites  with  the  greatest 
ability  the  noblest  and  best  heart,  to  whom  I  looked  up  with 
confidence  in  all  things,  who  had  been  a  second  father  to  me, 
and  in  whose  children  I  have  found  brothers  and  sisters, — 
this  excellent  man  I  saw  now  for  the  first  time.  He  was  at 
that  time  director  of  the  Theatre  Royal,  and  people  univer¬ 
sally  told  me  that  it  would  be  the  best  thing  for  me  if  he 
would  interest  himself  on  my  behalf*  it  was  either  Orsted  oi 
Gutfeldt  who  first  mentioned  me  to  him  ;  and  now  for  the  first 
time  I  went  to  that  house  which  was  to  become  so  dear  to  me. 
Carl  Bernhard  has  in  his  novel,  “  Chronicles  of  the  Time  of 
Christian  II.,”  given  a  description  of  that  old  house,  from  its 
first  days  until  its  last  celebrity  as  Collin’s  home.  Before  the 
ramparts  of  Copenhagen  were  extended,  this  house  lay  out¬ 
side  the  gate,  and  served  as  a  summer  residence  to  the  Span¬ 
ish  Ambassador  ;  now,  however,  it  stands  a  crooked,  angular 
framework  building,  in  a  respectable  street ;  an  old-fashioned 
wooden  balcony  leads  to  the  entrance,  and  a  great  tree 
spreads  its  green  branches  over  the  court  and  its  pointed  ga¬ 
bles.  It  was  to  become  a  paternal  house  to  me.  Who  does 
not  willingly  linger  over  the  description  of  home  ? 

I  discovered  only  the  man  of  business  in  Collin  ;  his  con¬ 
versation  was  grave  and  in  few  words.  I  went  away,  without 
expecting  any  sympathy  ‘from  this  man  ;  and  yet  it  was  pre¬ 
cisely  Collin  who,  in  all  sincerity,  thought  for  my  advantage, 
and  who  worked  for  it  silently,  as  he  had  done  for  others, 
through  the  whole  course  of  his  active  life.  But  at  that  time 
I  did  not  understand  the  apparent  calmness  with  which  he 
listened,  whilst  his  heart  bled  for  the  afflicted,  and  he  always 
labored  for  them  with  zeal  and  success,  and  knew  how  to  help 
them.  He  touched  so  lightly  upon  my  tragedy,  which  had 
been  sent';  to  him,  and  on  account  of  which,  many  people  had 
overwhelmed  me  with  flattering  speeches,  that  I  regarded 
him  rather  as  an  enemy  than  a  protector. 

In  a  few  days  I  was  sent  for  by  the  directors  of  the  theatre, 
when  Rahbek  gave  me  back  my  play  as  useless  for  the  stage  , 
adding,  however,  that  there  were  so  many  grains  of  corn 
scattered  in  it,  they  hoped  that  perhaps,  by  earnest  study 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


43 


after  going  to  school  and  the  previous  knowledge  of  all  that  is 
requisite,  I  might,  some  time,  be  able  to  write  x  work  which 
should  be  worthy  of  being  acted  on  the  Danish  stage. 

In  order  therefore  to  obtain  the  means  for  my  support  and 
the  necessary  instruction,  Collin  recommended  me  to  King 
Frederick  VI..  who  granted  to  me  a  certain  sum  annually  for 
some  years  ;  and,  by  means  of  Collin  also,  the  directors  of 
the  high  schools  allowed  me  to  receive  free  instruction  in  .he 
grammar  school  at  Slagelse,  where  just  then  a  hew,  and,  as 
was  said,  an  active  rector  was  appointed.  I  was  almost  dumb 
with  astonishment :  never  had  I  thought  that  my  life  would 
take  this  direction,  although  I  had  no  correct  idea  of  the  path 
which  I  had  now  to  tread.  I  was  to  go  with  the  earliest  mail 
to  Slagelse,  which  lay  twelve  Danish  miles  from  Copenhagen, 
to  the  place  where  also  the  poets  Baggesen  and  Ingemann  had 
gone  to  school.  I  was  to  receive  money  quarterly  from  Collin  ; 
I  was  to  apply  to  him  in  all  cases,  and  he  it  was  who  was  to 
ascertain  my  industry  and  my  progress. 

I  went  to  him  the  second  time  to  express  to  him  my  thanks. 
Mildly  and  kindly  he  said  to  me,  “  Write  to  me  without  re¬ 
straint  about  everything  which  you  require,  and  tell  me  how  it 
goes  with  you.”  From  this  hour  I  struck  root  in  his  heart  ;  no 
father  could  have  been  more  to  me  than  he  was,  and  is ;  none 
could  have  more  heartily  rejoiced  in  my  happiness,  and  my 
after  reception  with  the  public  ;  none  have  shared  my  sorrow 
more  kindly ;  and  I  am  proud  to  say  that  one  of  the  most  ex¬ 
cellent  men  which  Denmark  possesses  feels  toward  me  as  to¬ 
ward  his  own  child.  His  beneficence  was  conferred  without 
his  making  me  feel  it  painful  either  by  word  or  look.  That 
was  not  the  case  with  every  one  to  whom,  in  this  change  .of 
my  fortunes,  I  had  to  offer  my  thanks  ;  I  was  told  to  think  of 
iny  inconceivable  happiness  and  my  poverty  ;  in  Collin’s  words 
was  expressed  the  warm-heartedness  of  a  father,  and  to  him 
it  was  that  properly  I  was  indebted  for  everything. 

The  journey  was  hastily  determined  upon,  and  I  had  yet  for 
myself  some  business  to  arrange.  I  had  spoken  to  an  ac¬ 
quaintance  from  Odense  who  had  the  management  of  a  small 
printing  concern  for  a  widow,  to  get  “  Alfsol”  printed,  that  I 
might,  by  the  sale  of  the  work,  make  a  little  money.  Before, 


44 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


however,  the  piece  was  printed,  it  was  necessary  that  1  should 
obtain  a  certain  number  of  subscribers ;  but  these  were  not 
obtained,  and  the  manuscript  lay  in  the  printing-office,  which, 
at  the  time  I  went  to  fetch  it  away,  was  shut  up.  Some  years 
afterward,  however,  it  suddenly  made  its  appearance  in  print 
without  my  knowledge  or  my  desire,  ir.  its  unaltered  shape, 
but  without  my  name. 

The  fictitious  name  which  I  took  seems  at  first  sight  a  great 
piece  of  vanity,  and  yet  it  was  not  so,  but  really  an  expression 
of  love,  —  a  childish  love,  such  as  the  child  has  when  it  calls  its 
doll  by  the  name  it  likes  best.  I  loved  William  Shakespeare 
and  Walter  Scott,  and  of  course  I  loved  also  myself.  I  took 
therefore  my  name  Christian,  and  so  I  assumed  the  fictitious 
name  “  William  Christian  Walter.”  The  book  exists  still, 
and  contains  the  tragedy  “  Alfsol,”  and  a  tale,  “  The  Spectre 
at  Palnatoke’s  Grave, ”  in  which  neither  the  spectre  nor  Pal- 
natoke  play  any  part ;  it  is  a  very  rough  imitation  of  Walter 
Scott.  Dana ,  the  speaker  in  the  prologue,  says  that  I  am 
“only  seventeen  years  old,”  and  that  I  bring 

—  “a  wreath  of  beech-roots  and  Danish  flowers.” 

It  is  a  very  miserable  production  throughout. 

On  a  beautiful  autumn  day  I  set  off  with  the  mail  from 
Copenhagen  to  begin  my  school-life  in  Slagelse.  A  young 
student,  who  a  month  before  had  passed  his  first  examination, 
and  now  was  travelling  home  to  Jutland  to  exhibit  himself 
there  as  a  student,  and  to  see  once  more  his  parents  and  his 
friends,  sat  by  my  side,  and  exulted  for  joy  over  the  new  life 
which  now  lay  before  him  ;  he  assured  me  that  he  should  be 
the  most  unhappy  of  human  beings  if  he  were  in  my  place, 
and  were  again  beginning  to  go  to  the  grammar  school.  But 
I  travelled  with  a  good  heart  toward  the  little  city  of  Zealand. 
My  mother  received  a  joyful  letter  from  me.  I  only  wished 
that  my  father  and  the  old  grandmother  yet  lived,  and  could 
hear  that  I  now  went  to  the  grammar  school. 


CHAPTER  III. 


WHEN,  late  in  the  evening,  I  arrived  at  the  inn  in  Sla* 
gelse,  I  asked  the  hostess  if  there  were  anyti  ing  re¬ 
markable  in  the  city. 

“Yes,”  said  she,  “a  new  English  fire-engine  and  Pastor 
Bastholm’s  library,”  —  and  those  probably  were  all  the  lions  in 
the  city.  A  few  officers  of  the  Lancers  composed  the  fine- 
gentleman  world.  Everybody  knew  what  was  done  in  every¬ 
body’s  house,  whether  a  scholar  was  elevated  or  degraded  in 
his  class,  and  the  like.  A  private  theatre,  to  which,  at  gen¬ 
eral  rehearsal,  the  scholars  of  the  grammar  school  and  the 
maid-servants  of  the  town  had  free  entrance,  furnished  rich 
material  for  conversation.  In  my  “  Picture  Book  without 
Pictures,”  the  fourth  night,  1  have  given  a  sketch  of  it. 

I  boarded  with  a  respectable  widow  of  the  educated  class, 
and  had  a  little  chamber  looking  out  into  the  garden  and 
field.  My  place  in  the  school  was  in  the  lowest  class,  among 
little  boys  :  I  knew  indeed  nothing  at  all. 

I  was  actually  like  a  wild  bird  which  is  confined  in  a  cage  ; 
I  had  the  greatest  desire  to  learn,  but  for  the  moment  I  floun¬ 
dered  about,  as  if  I  had  been  thrown  into  the  sea  ;  one 
wave  followed  another ;  grammar,  geography,  mathematics  : 
I  felt  myself  overpowered  by  them,  and  feared  that  I  should 
never  be  able  to  acquire  all  these.  The  Rector,  who  took  a 
peculiar  delight  in  turning  everything  to  ridicule,  did  not,  of 
course,  make  an  exception  in  my  case.  To  me  he  stood  there 
as  a  divinity  ;  I  believed  unconditionally  every  word  which  he 
spoke.  One  day,  when  I  had  replied  incorrectly  to  his  ques¬ 
tion,  and  he  said  that  I  was  stupid,  I  mentioned  it  to  Collin, 
and  told  him  my  anxiety,  lest  I  did  not  deserve  all  that  peo¬ 
ple  had  done  for  me  ;  but  he  consoled  me.  Occasionally, 
however,  on  some  subjects  of  instruction,  I  began  to  receive 
i  good  certificate,  and  the  teachers  were  heartily  kind  to  me  j 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


46 

yet,  notwithstanding  that  I  advanced,  I  still  lost  confidence  in 
myself  more  and  more.  On  one  of  the  first  examinations? 
however,  I  obtained  the  praise  of  the  Rector.  He  wrote  the 
same  in  my  character-book  ;  and,  happy  in  this,  I  went  a  few 
days  afterward  to  Copenhagen.  Guldberg,  who  saw  the  prog¬ 
ress  I  had  made,  received  me  kindly,  and  commended  my 
zeal. 

“  I  advise  you  as  a  friend  not  to  make  any  more  verses,” 
said  he,  and  the  same  advice  was  repeated  on  all  sides.  I 
did  not  write  more  verses,  but  reflected  on  my  duties,  and  on 
the  very  uncertain  hope  I  had  of  becoming  a  student.  I  paid 
a  visit  to  the  learned  Mr.  Bastholm  of  Slagelse,  editor  of  a 
West  Zealand  newspaper,  who  lived  in  retirement  devoted  only 
to  his  studies. 

I  presented  him  a  couple  of  my  earlier  writings  and  that 
gave  him  an  interest  in  me.  He  also  advised  me  to  keep  to 
my  school-books,  and  wrote  me  a  letter,  in  which  he  presented 
with  true  sentiment  and  sincere  advice  a  truth,  which  may 
always  have  a  place  in  many  people’s  mind.  He  wrote  :  — 

“  I  have  read  your  prologue,  my  young  friend,  and  I  must 
confess  that  God  has  endowed  you  with  a  vivid  imagination 
and  a  warm  heart ;  you  still  need  cultivation  of  mind,  but  that 
nay  come,  as  you  now  have  a  good  opportunity  to  procure  it. 
t  our  constant  aim  should  be  to  endeavor  with  the  utmost 
>.eal  to  finish  your  studies,  and  for  that  reason  you  should  put 
aside  all  other  things. 

“  I  could  wish  that  your  juvenile  essays  were  not  printed,  as 
L  cannot  see  why  the  public  should  be  incumbered  with  im¬ 
perfections  —  we  have  plenty  of  that ;  still  they  are  so  far  good 
that  they  may  serve  to  justify  the  support  you  receive  from  the 
public.  The  young  poet  must  shun  the  infection  of  vanity, 
and  watch  over  the  purity  and  strength  of  his  feelings.  In 
the  present  period  of  your  studies  I  advise  you  to  write  poems 
but  seldom,  and  only  when  you  need  air  for  ycur  feelings. 
Don’t  write  anything  for  which  you  have  to  hunt  after  words 
and  thoughts,  but  only  when  the  soul  is  animated  by  an  idea 
and  the  heart  warmed  by  true  feeling. 

“  Observe  closely  nature,  life,  and  yourself,  that  you  may 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


47 


procure  original  material  for  your  poetical  pictures;  make  a 
choice  from  the  things  that  surround  you  ;  reflect  from  all 
points  of  view  on  what  you  see ;  take  up  the  pen,  become 
poet,  as  if  you  did  not  know  that  any  poet  had  ever  existed  in 
the  world  before  you,  or  as  if  you  had  not  to  learn  of  anybody ; 
preserve  that  nobleness  of  mind,  that  purity  and  sublimity 
of  soul,  without  which  the  wreath  of  poetry  never  can  crown 
a  mortal.  *  Your  affectionate 

“  Slagelse,  February  i,  1823.”  “  BaSTHOLM. 

With  the  same  sympathy  I  was  followed  by  the  before  men¬ 
tioned  Colonel,  now  General  Guldberg,  of  Odense  ;  he  was 
extremely  happy  at  my  admission  into  a  higher  school,  wrote 
frequently  to  me,  and  always  encouraged  and  strengthened  me  ; 
as  the  first  summer  vacation  came  on,  he  invited  me  to  come 
over  to  him,  —  nay,  furnished  me  with  the  means  to  defray  my 
travelling  expenses.  I  had  not  been  in  my  native  town  since 
I  left  it  to  seek  my  fortune  ;  in  that  interval  my  old  grand¬ 
mother  had  died  and  also  my  grandfather. 

My  mother  often  told  me,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  that  I  had 
a  fortune  in  prospect :  that  I  should  be  heir  of  my  grandfather, 
who  owned  a  house  ;  it  was  a  little,  poor  wooden  house,  which 
was  sold  after  his  death  and  immediately  pulled  down  ;  most 
of  the  old  man’s  money  was  applied  to  pay  the  taxes  in  ar- 
rear,  and  the  authorities  had  seized  “  the  big  stove  with  brass 
drum,”  a  piece  worth  owning,  they  said,  and  it  was  taken  up 
to  the  town-hall.  There  was  so  much  money  that  they  could 
have  made  a  cart-load  of  the  coins,  but  they  were  the  old  re¬ 
duced  coins,  which  the  government  no  longer  received.  In 
1813,  when  these  coins  were  reduced,  the  old  insane  man  was 
told  that  they  were  good  for  nothing.  “  No  man  can  reject 
;he  King’s  money !  ”  said  he,  “  and  the  King  won’t  reject  his 
own  :  ”  that  was  his  whole  answer.  “  The  big  inheritance  ”  I 
had  heard  so  much  about  was  reduced  to  some  twenty  rix- 
dollars  and  passed  over  to  me.  I  must  however  candidly 
confess,  that  I  did  not  care  much  about  those  riches  ;  my 
houghts  were  onh  lingering  on  my  visit  to  my  home.  I  felt 
ich  and  happy,  and  my  mind  was  excited  with  expectation. 

I  crossed  the  Belt,  and  went  on  foot  to  Odense.  When 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


48 

I  came  near  enough  to  see  the  lofty  old  church  toner,  m ) 
heart  was  more  and  more  affected  ;  I  felt  deeply  the  care 
of  God  for  me,  and  1  burst  into  tears.  My  mother  rejoiced 
over  me.  The  families  of  Iversen  and  Guldberg  received  me 
cordially  ;  and  in  the  little  streets  I  saw  the  people  open  their 
windows  to  look  at  me,  for  everybody  knew  how  remarka¬ 
bly  well  things  had  fared  with  me  ;  nay,  I  fancied  I  actually 
stood  upon  the  pinnacle  of  fortune,  when  one  of  the  principal 
citizens,  who  had  built  a  high  tower  to  his  house,  led  me  up 
there,  and  I  looked  out  thence  over  the  city  and  the  surround¬ 
ing  country,  and  some  old  women  in  the  hospital  below,  who 
had  known  me  from  childhood,  pointed  up  to  me.  One  after 
noon,  in  company  with  the  families  of  Guldberg  and  the  Bishop, 
I  sailed  in  a  boat  on  the  stream,  and  my  mother  shed  tears 
of  joy  ;  “  for,”  as  she  said,  “  I  was  honored  like  the  child  of  a 
count.” 

As  soon,  however,  as  I  returned  to  Slagelse,  this  halo  of 
glory  vanished,  as  well  as  every  thought  of  it.  I  may  freely 
confess  that  I  was  industrious,  and  I  rose,  as  soon  as  it  was 
possible,  into  a  higher  class ;  but  in  proportion  as  I  rose  did  I 
feel  the  pressure  upon  me  more  strongly,  and  that  my  endeav¬ 
ors  were  not  sufficiently  productive.  Many  an  evening,  when 
sleep  overcame  me,  I  would  wash  my  head  with  cold  water,  or 
run  about  the  lonely  little  garden,  till  I  was  again  wakeful, 
and  could  comprehend  the  book  anew.  The  Rector  filled  up  a 
portion  of  his  hours  of  teaching  with  jest,  nicknames,  and  not 
the  happiest  of  witticisms.  I  was  as  if  paralyzed  with  anxiety 
when  he  entered  the  room,  and  from  that  cause  my  replies 
often  expressed  the  opposite  of  that  which  I  wished  to  say, 
and  thereby  my  anxiety  was  all  the  more  increased.,  What 
was  to  become  of  me  ? 

In  a  moment  of  ill-humor  I  wrote  a  letter  to  the  head  mas¬ 
ter,  who  was  one  of  those  who  was  most  friendly  inclined  to 
me.  I  said  in  this  letter  that  I  regarded  myself  as  a  person 
so  little  gifted  by  nature,  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
study,  and  that  the  people  in  Copenhagen  threw  away  the 
noney  which  they  spent  upon  me  :  I  besought  him  therefore 
to  counsel  me  what  I  should  do.  The  excellent  man  strength* 
cned  me  with  mild  words,  and  wrote  to  me  a  most  friendly 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


49 


and  consolatory  letter  :  he  said  that  the  Rector  meant  kindly 
by  me  ;  that  it  was  his  custom  and  way  of  acting  ;  that  I 
was  making  all  the  progress  that  people  could  expect  from 
me  :  and  that  I  need  not  doubt  of  my  abilities.  He  told  me 
.hat  he  himself  was  a  peasant  youth  of  three  and  twenty  — 
older  than  I  myself  was  —  when  he  began  his  studies;  the 
misfortune  for  me  was,  that  I  ought  to  have  been  treated  differ¬ 
ently  from  the  other  scholars,  but  that  this  could  hardly  be 
done  in  a  school  ;  still  that  things  were  progressing,  and  that  I 
stood  well  both  with  the  teachers  and  my  fellow- students.  I 
was  always  praised  for  Religion,  Biblical  History,  and  Danish 
themes  :  from  all  the  classes,  from  the  highest  one  too,  one  or 
another  of  the  scholars  used  to  come  home  to  me  to  be  helped 
in  their  Danish  exercises,  —  “only not  so  well  that  it  would  be 
observed,”  was  their  request,  —  and  I  was  again  in  turn  helped 
by  them  in  Latin.  For  “conduct,”  I  got  steadily  every  month 
from  all  the  teachers  the  character  “  remarkably  good  ;  ”  once 
it  happened,  however,  that  I  only  got  “  very  good,”  and  I 
was  so  troubled  at  the  reduction  that  I  immediately  wrote  a 
tragic-comical  letter  to  Collin  and  told  him  that  I  was  quite 
innocent,  though  I  had  only  got  the  character  “  very  good.” 
In  the  mean  time  I  knew  that  the  Rector  judged  me  otherwise 
than  he  reported  ;  now  and  then  I  discovered  in  him  a  gleam 
of  kindness,  and  I  was  always  among  the  scholars  whom  he 
invited  to  his  house  on  Sundays  ;  and  then  he  was  quite  an¬ 
other  man,  he  was  overflowing  with  jest  and  merriment,  related 
funny  stories,  put  up  tin  soldiers  for  us,  and  played  with  us 
and  with  his  children. 

Every  Sunday  we  had  to  attend  the  church  and  hear  an  old 
preacher ;  the  other  scholars  learned  their  lessons  in  history 
and  mathematics  while  he  preached  ;  I  learned  my  task  in 
religion,  and  thought  that  by  so  doing  it  was  less  sinful.  The 
general  rehearsals  at  the  private  theatre  were  points  of  light 
in  mj  school  life  ;  they  took  place  in  a  back  building,  where 
the  lowing  of  the  cows  might  be  heard  ;  the  street-decoration 
was  a  picture  of  the  market-place  of  the  city,  by  which  means 
the  representation  had  something  familiar  about  it ;  it  amused 
the  inhabitants  to  see  their  own  houses. 

On  Saturday  afternoons  it  was  my  delight  to  go  to  the  cis- 

4 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


50 

tie  of  Antvorskov,  at  that  time  only  half  in  ruins,  and  once  a 
monastery,  where  I  pursued  the  excavating  of  the  ruined  cel 
lars,  as  if  it  had  been  a  Pompeii. 

In  a  little  cottage  there  lived  a  young  married  couple,  de¬ 
scended  from  a  family  of  rank  ;  I  believe  they  were  married 
against  the  will  of  their  parents  ;  they  were  truly  very  poor, 
but  seemed  happy,  and  the  low-studded  room  with  white¬ 
washed  walls  had  an  air  of  comfort  and  beauty  ;  fresh-gath¬ 
ered  flowers  were  placed  on  the  table,  where  also  books  in 
luxurious  bindings  were  scattered,  and  a  harp  stood  ready  for 
use. 

I  had  accidentally  made  acquaintance  with  the  young 
couple,  and  was  always  very  kindly  received  by  them  ;  idyllic 
beauty  was  spread  over  that  little  abode,  which  was  situated 
below  the  lonely  castle  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  I  often  ram¬ 
bled  also  to  the  crucifix  of  St.  Anders,  which  stands  upon  one 
of  the  heights  -of  Slagelse,  and  is  one  of  the  wooden  crosses 
erected  in  the  time  of  Catholicism  in  Denmark.  St.  Anders 
was  a  priest  in  Slagelse,  and  travelled  to  the  Holy  Land  ; 
on  the  last  day  he  remained  so  long  praying  at  the  holy 
sepulchre,  that  the  ship  sailed  away  without  him.  Vexed  at 
this  circumstance,  he  walked  along  the  shore,  where  a  man 
met  him  riding  on  an  ass,  and  took  him  up  with  him.  Im¬ 
mediately  he  fell  asleep,  and  when  he  awoke  he  heard  the  bells 
of  Slagelse  ringing.  He  lay  upon  the  (Hvilehoi)  hill  of  rest, 
Adhere  the  cross  now  stands.  He  was  at  home  a  vear  and  a 

J 

lay  before  the  ship  returned  which  sailed  away  without  him, 
and  an  angel  had  borne  him  home.  The  legend,  and  the 
Diace  where  he  woke,  were  both  favorites  of  mine.  On  this 
fill  I  often  sat  in  the  evening  and  looked  over  meadow  and 
cornfield  down  upon  Corsoer  where  Baggesen  was  born.  Here 
he  might  also  have  sat,  when  a  scholar  of  Slagelse  school, 
looking  over  the  Belt  to  Funen.  Upon  this  hill,  I  could  in¬ 
dulge  my  fancies,  and  later,  when  passing  here  in  the  diligence. 
I  often  looked  up  to  the  hill  with  the  cross,  and  thought  of  that 
portion  of  my  life  which  was  so  closely  attached  to  this  spot. 

The  happiest  time,  however,  was  when,  once  on  a  Sunday, 
whilst  the  wood  was  green,  I  went  to  the  city  of  Soro,  two 
(Danish)  miles  from  Slagelse,  which  lies  in  the  midst  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE  Jf 

Woods,  surrounded  by  lakes.  Here  is  an  acac  emy  for  the  no¬ 
bility,  founded  by  the  poet  Plolberg.  Ever) thing  lay  in  a 
conventual  stillness.  I  visited  here  the  poet  [ngemann,  who 
had  just  married,  and  who  held  a  situation  as  teacher  ;  he  had 
already  received  me  kindly  in  Copenhagen  ;  but  here  his  re¬ 
ception  of  me  was  still  more  kind.  His  life  in  this  place 
seemed  to  me  like  a  beautiful  storv  ;  flowers  and  vines  twined 
around  his  window  ;  the  rooms  were  adorned  with  the  por¬ 
traits  of  distinguished  poets,  and  other  pictures.  We  sailed 
upon  the  lake  with  an  ./Eolian  harp  made  fast  to  the  mast. 
Ingemann  talked  cheerfully,  and  his  excellent,  amiable  wife 
treated  me  as  if  she  were  an  elder  sister :  I  loved  these 
people.  Our  friendship  has  grown  with  years.  I  have  been 
from  that  time  almost  every  summer  a  welcome  guest  there, 
and  I  have  experienced  that  there  are  people  in  whose  society 
one  is  made  better,  as  it  were ;  that  which  is  bitter  passes 
away,  and  the  whole  world  appears  in  sunlight. 

Among  the  pupils  in  the  academy  of  nobles,  there  were  two 
who  made  verses  ;  they  knew  that  I  did  the  same,  and  they 
attached  themselves  to  me.  The  one  was  Petit,  who  after¬ 
wards,  certainly  with  the  best  intention,  but  not  faithfully, 
translated  several  of  my  books.  He  has  also  written  a  strange, 
fantastical  biography  of  me,  in  which,  among  other  things,  he 
gives  a  description  of  my  paternal  home  that  seems  to  have  a 
great  resemblance  to  that  in  “The  Ugly  Duckling.”  He  makes 
my  mother  a  Madonna,  lets  me  run  with  rosy  feet  in  the  even¬ 
ing  sun,  and  more  of  the  same  kind.  Petit  was  nevertheless 
not  without  talent,  and  possessed  of  a  warm,  noble  heart  ;  life 
brought  him  many  sorrowful  days.  Now  he  is  among  the  dead, 
and  his  vivacious  spirit  may  have  attained  more  serenity  and 
repose.  The  other  was  the  poet  Carl  Bagger,  one  of  the  most 
gifted  of  men  who  has  come  forward  in  Danish  literature,  but 
who  has  been  unjustly  judged.  His  poems  are  full  of  fresh¬ 
ness  and  originality  ;  his  story,  “  The  Life  of  my  Brother  ”  is  a 
clever  book,  by  the  critique  on  which  the  “  Danish  Monthly 
Review  of  Literature  ”  has  proved  that  it  does  not  understand 
how  to  give  judgment.  These  two  academicians  were  very 
different  from  me  :  life  rushed  rejoicingly  through  their  veins; 
I  was  sensitive  and  childlike,  while  I  was  the  most  grown  of 


52 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


as  three.  The  quiet  Soro,  with  its  woody  sol  tude,  became 
thus  for  me  a  home  of  poetry  and  friendship. 

An  event  that  agitated  much  our  little  town  was  the  execu¬ 
tion  of  three  criminals  down  at  Skjelskjor.  A  rich  young 
daughter  of  a  farmer  had  induced  her  suitor  to  kill  her  father, 
who  opposed  their  match  ;  an  accessory  to  the  crime  was  the 
man-servant,  who  intended  to  marry  the  widow.  Every  one 
was  going  to  see  the  execution,  and  the  day  was  like  a  holi¬ 
day.  The  Rector  dismissed  the  upper  class  from  school,  and 
we  were  to  go  and  see  the  execution,  for  it  would  be  a  good 
thing  for  us  to  be  acquainted  with  it,  he  said. 

The  whole  night  we  drove  in  open  carriages,  and  at  sunrise 
we  reached  Skjelskjor.  It  made  a  very  strong  impression 
upon  me.  I  never  shall  forget  seeing  the  criminals  driven  to 
the  place  of  execution  :  the  young  girl,  deadly  pale,  leaning  her 
head  against  the  breast  of  her  robust  sweetheart ;  behind  them 
the  man-servant,  livid,  his  black  hair  in  disorder,  and  nodding 
with  a  squinting  look  at  a  few  acquaintances,  who  shouted  out 
to  him  “  Farewell !  ”  Standing  at  the  side  of  their  coffins,  they 
sang  a  hymn  together  with  the  minister  •  the  girl’s  voice  was 
heard  above  all  the  others.  My  limbs  could  scarcely  carry 
me  !  these  moments  were  more  horrible  for  me  than  the  very 
moment  of  death.  I  saw  a  poor  sick  man,  whose  superstitious 
parents,  in  order  to  cure  him  of  a  fit,  had  given  him  to  drink  a 
cup  of  blood  from  the  persons  executed  ;  he  ran  away  in  wild 
flight  till  he  sank  exhausted  on  the  ground.  A  ballad-maker 
was  vending  his  “  melancholy  airs  ;  ”  the  words  were  put  in  the 
mouth  of  the  malefactors,  and  sounded  comical] v  to  a  well- 
known  melody.  The  whole  tragedy  made  such  an  impression 
upon  my  fancy  that  for  a  long  time  after  I  was  persecuted  by 
the  memory  of  it ;  and  though  many  years  have  passed  away, 
it  is  still  as  fresh  to  me  as  if  it  happened  yesterday. 

Events  like  this  or  other  important  incidents  did  not  continue 
to  happen  ;  one  day  after  another  glided  away,  but  the  less 
there  is  going  on  and  the  more  quiet  and  monotonous  one’s 
life  is  the  sooner  one  thinks  of  preserving  what  passes,  —  of 
keeping  a  diary,  as  it  is  called.  At  that  time  I  also  kept  such 
a  one,  of  which  I  have  retained  a  couple  of  leaves,  in  which 
the  whole  of  my  strange,  childish  nature  at  that  time  is  faith- 


THE  STORY  CL  MY  LIFE.  JJ 

Ailly  reflected.  I  insert  here  some  passages  from  it,  copying 
them  literall)'. 

I  was  then  in  the  upper  class  but  one,  and  my  w  hole  exist¬ 
ence  and  happiness  depended  on  being  promoted  to  .he  highest 
class  at  the  approaching  examination.  I  wrote  :  — 

“  Wednesday.  —  Depressed  in  spirit  I  took  up  the  Bible, 
which  lay  before  me,  for  an  oracle,  opened  it,  pointed  blindly  at 
a  place  and  read  :  ‘  O  Israel,  thou  hast  destroyed  thyself!  but 
in  me  is  thine  help!’  (Hosea.)  Yes,  Father,  I  am  weak,  but 
thou  lookest  into  my  heart  and  wilt  be  my  help  so  that  I  can  be 
promoted  to  the  fourth  class.  Have  answered  well  in  Hebrew. 

“  Thursday.  —  Happened  to  pull  off  the  leg  of  a  spider ; 
went  nicely  through  in  mathematics.  O  God,  God,  to  thee 
my  heart’s  entire  thanks. 

“  Friday.  —  O  God,  help  me  !  The  night  is  so  wintry  clear. 
The  examination  is  well  over — to-morrow  comes  the  result. 
O  Moon  !  to-morrow  thou  wilt  behold  either  a  pale,  desperate 
being  or  one  of  the  happiest.  Read  Schiller’s  ‘  Kabale  und 
Liebe.’ 

“  Saturday.  —  O  God,  now  my  fate  is  decided,  but  still 
hidden  from  me :  what  may  it  be  ?  God,  my  God  !  do  not 
forsake  me  !  my  blood  runs  so  fast  through  my  veins,  my 
nerves  tremble  with  fear.  O  God,  Almighty  God,  help  me  — 
I  do  not  deserve  it,  but  be  merciful  O  God,  God  !  —  (Later.)  I 
am  promoted  —  Is  it  not  strange  ?  My  joy  is  not  so  violent  as 
I  supposed  it  would  be.  At  eleven  o’clock  I  wrote  to  Guld- 
berg  and  to  my  mother.” 

At  that  time  I  made  a  vow  to  the  Lord  in  my  silent  thoughts 
that  if  He  would  let  me  be  promoted  to  the  fourth  class,  I 
would  go  to  Communion  the  following  Sunday,  and  that  I  also 
did. 

You  can  see  by  this  what  trouble  I  had  in  my  pious  mind, 
and  what  degree  of  development  I  had  reached,  although  at 
that  time  I  was  already  twenty  years  old.  How  much  better 
other  young  men  at  that  age  would  have  written  in  their  diarv  1 

The  Rector  grew  weary  of  his  residence  in  Slagelse  ;  he 
applied  for  the  vacant  post  of  Rector  in  the  grammar  school 
of  Helsingor,  and  obtained  it.  He  told  me  of  it,  and  added 
kindly,  that  I  might  write  to  Collin  and  ask  leave  to  accompany 


\ 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


54 

him  thither;  that  I  might  live  in  his  house,  and  could  fven 
now  remove  to  his  family ;  I  should  then  in  half  a  year  become 
a  student,  which  could  not  be  the  case  if  I  remained  behind, 
and  that  then  he  would  himself  give  me  some  private  lessons 
in  Latin  and  Greek.  I,  of  course,  immediately  received  Col¬ 
lin’s  permission,  and  removed  to  the  house  of  the  Rector. 

I  was  now  to  take  leave  of  Slagelse :  it  was  very  hard  for 
me  to  say  good-by  to  my  comrades  and  the  few  families  whose 
acquaintance  I  had  made :  of  course,  I  also  on  that  occasion 
got  an  album,  in  which,  amongst  others,  my  old  teacher  Mr. 
Snitker  wrote  something:  he  had  been  Ingemann  and  Poul 
Moller’s  teacher  when  they  were  scholars  there. 

Carl  Bagger  wrote  a  poem  addressed  to  me,  which  was 
more  like  a  dedication  to  a  young  poet,  than  a  poem  to  a  boy 
going  away  to  take  his  seat  on  a  school-bench.  And  so  I 
went  thither,  and  approached  heavy,  wearisome  days. 

. ...  I  accompanied  the  Rector  to  Helsingor  ;  the  journey,  the 
first  view  of  the  Sound  with  its  many  sailing  ships,  the  Kullen 
Mountains,  and  the  beautiful  country,  all  filled  my  mind  with 
transport;  I  described  it  in  a  letter  to  Rasmus  Nyrup,  and  as 
I  thought  it  very  well  written,  I  sent  the  same  letter  to  others, 
addressing  it  to  each  of  them.  Unfortunately  it  pleased  Nyrup 
so  well  that  he  inserted  it  in  the  “  Copenhagen  Pictorial,”  so 
that  each  of  them  who  had  got  the  letter,  or  rather  the  copy  of 
it,  believed  that  he  saw  his  letter  printed  in  the  news-paper. 

The  Rector’s  spirits  were  refreshed  by  the  variety,  the  new 
company,  and  new  activity,  but  only  for  a  short  time,  and  I 
soon  felt  myself  forsaken  ;  I  became  depressed  and  suffert  d 
much  in  mind.  The  Rector  had  sent  Mr.  Collin  at  that  time 
an  account  of  me,  which  I  now  have,  in  which  he  judges  me 
and  my  abilities  quite  differently  from  what  I  and  others  had 
heard  or  could  have  believed  him  to  say.  If  I  had  had  any 
knowledge  of  it,  I  should  have  been  strengthened  :  it  would 
have  made  me  healthier  in  mind,  and  would  have  acted  bene¬ 
ficially  upon  my  whole  being. 

1  heard  him  every  day  condemn  almost  every  intellectual 
faculty  in  me  ;  he  spoke  to  me  as  to  an  idiot,  —  to  a  perfectly 
brutish,  stupid  boy,  —  and  at  the  same  time  he  wrote  earnestly 
bout  me  to  my  patron  Collin,  who,  on  account  of  my  fre* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  55 

quent  reports  of  the  Rector’s  dissatisfaction  with  me  and  my 
poor  abilities,  had  asked  him  for  a  statement. 

“  H.  C.  Andersen  was,  at  the  close  of  the  year  1822,  ad¬ 
mitted  to  Slagelse  grammar  school,  and  being  in  want  of  the 
most  necessary  preliminary  knowledge,  in  spite  of  his  pretty 
advanced  age,  was  put  into  the  lowest  class  but  one. 

“  Endowed  by  nature  with  a  lively  imagination  and  warm  feel¬ 
ings,  he  attempted  and  acquired  more  or  less  completely  the 
different  branches  of  instruction,  and  in  general  made  such 
progress,  that  it  entitled  him  to  be  promoted  successively  from 
the  lower  classes  to  the  highest,  to  which  he  at  present  be¬ 
longs,  only  with  the  difference  that  he  has  removed  with  the 
undersigned  from  Slagelse  to  Helsingor. 

“  The  kindness  of  others  has  until  now  maintained  him  in  his 
course  of  study,  and  I  cannot  refrain  from  saying  that  he  is 
perfectly  worthy.  His  talents  are  good,  and  in  one  direction 
even  excellent ;  his  constant  diligence,  and  his  conduct,  which 
springs  from  an  affectionate  disposition,  are  such  that  he  might 
serve  as  a  model  for  the  pupils  of  any  school.  It  may  be 
stated  further,  that,  by  continuing  his  praiseworthy  assiduity, 
he  will,  in  October,  1828,  be  able  to  be  promoted  to  the 
Academy. 

“  Three  qualities  which  a  preceptor  wishes  for,  but  rarely 
finds  combined  in  the  same  pupil,  namely,  ability,  diligence, 
and  excellent  conduct,  are  assuredly  to  be  found  in  H.  C. 
Andersen. 

“  In  consideration  of  this,  I  must  recommend  him  as  very 
worthy  of  any  support  which  may  be  given  to  him  to  enable 
him  to  continue  his  course,  from  which  his  advanced  age  will 
not  well  allow  him  to  retire.  Not  only  the  disposition  of 
mind,  but  also  his  faithful  assiduity  and  undoubted  talent,  give 
sufficient  warrant  that  what  may  be  bestowed  upon  him  for  his 
welfare  will  never  be  lost. 

S.  Meisling, 

“Ph.  Dr .,  and  Rector  of  Helsingor' s  grammar  school \ 
•  • 

“Helsingor,  July  18,  1826.’ 

Of  \his  testimony  v.hich  * 'eathes  so  much  goodness  towaid 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


5* 

me  and  which  ought  to  be  known,  I  had  no  sort  of  k nowlevlge, 
I  was  entirely  depressed,  and  had  neither  belief  nor  confi¬ 
dence  in  myself.  Collin  sent  me  a  few  kind  lines  :  — 

“  Don’t  lose  courage,  my  dear  Andersen  !  Compose  yom 
mind  and  be  quiet  and  reasonable  ;  you  will  see  that  all  will 
go  well  ;  the  Rector  bears  good-will  to  you.  He  takes  per¬ 
haps  another  way  of  showing  it  from  what  others  would,  but  still 
it  leads  to  the  same  end. 

“  I  may  write  more  another  time,  to-day  I  am  prevented. 

“  God  bless  you  !  Yours, 

“  Collin.” 

The  scenery  here  made  a  lively  impression  upon  me,  but  1 
dared  only  to  cast  stolen  glances  at  it.  When  the  school 
hours  were  over,  the  house-door  was  commonly  locked  ;  I 
was  obliged  to  remain  in  the  heated  school-room  and  learn 
my  Latin,  or  else  play  with  the  children,  or  sit  in  my  little 
room  ;  I  never  went  out  to  visit  anybody.  My  life  in  this 
family  furnishes  the  most  evil  dreams  to  my  remembrance.  I 
was  almost  overcome  by  it,  and  my  prayer  to  God  every  even¬ 
ing  was,  that  He  would  remove  this  cup  from  and  let  me  die. 
I  possessed  not  an  atom  of  confidence  in  myself.  I  never  men¬ 
tioned  in  my  letters  how  hard  it  went  with  me,  because  the 
Rector  found  his  pleasure  in  making  a  jest  of  me,  and  turning 
my  feelings  to  ridicule. 

My  letters  to  Collin  at  that  period  showed  a  dull  and  hope¬ 
less  disposition  of  mind  which  deeply  touched  him  ;  I  know 
that  from  himself,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  He  pre¬ 
sumed  and  might  presume  that  the  real  pressure  was  in  my 
own  mind,  and  in  a  nervous  over-exertion,  and  did  not  come 
from  without,  as  it  really  did.  My  mind  was  very  elastic  and 
ready  to  receive  every  sunbeam,  but  these  only  reached  me 
the  few  days  once  a  year  in  my  vacations,  when  I  was  allowed 
to  go  to  Copenhagen. 

What  a  change  it  was  to  get  for  a  few  days  out  of  the  Rec 
tor’s  rooms  into  a  house  in  Copenhagen,  where  all  was  ele¬ 
gance,  cleanliness,  and  full  of  the  comforts  of  refined  life  ! 
This  was  at  Admiral  Wulffs,  whose  wife  felt  for  me  the  kind 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


57 

ness  of  2.  mother,  and  whose  children  met  me  with  coidiality ; 
they  dwelt  in  a  portion  of  the  Castle  of  Amalienburg,  and  my 
chamber  looked  out  into  the  square.  I  remember  the  first 
evening  there  ;  Aladdin’s  words  passed  through  my  mind,  wher 
he  looked  down  from  his  splendid  castle  into  the  square,  and 
said,  “  Here  came  I  as  a  poor  lad.”  My  soul  was  full  of 
gratitude. 

During  my  whole  residence  in  Slagelse  I  had  scarcely  writ¬ 
ten  more  than  four  or  five  poems ;  two  of  which,  “  The 
Soul,  ”  and  “  To  my  Mother,  ”  will  be  found  printed  in  my 
collected  works.  In  my  school-days  in  Helsingor  I  only 
wrote  two  poems,  “New  Year’s  Night ’’and  “The  Dying 
Child  •”  the  last  one  was  the  first  of  my  poems  which  gained 
attention  and  acknowledgment  and  was  earliest  published  and 
translated.  I  read  it  to  some  acquaintance  in  Copenhagen  ; 
some  were  struck  by  it,  but  most  of  them  only  remarked  my 
Funen  dialect,  which  drops  the  d  in  every  word.  I  was  com¬ 
mended  by  many ;  but  from  the  greater  number  I  received  a 
lecture  on  modesty,  and  that  I  should  not  get  too  great  ideas  of 
myself —  I  who  really  at  that  time  thought  nothing  of  »myself. 

One  of  my  kind  lady  protectors  said  and  wrote  to  me  : 
“  For  God’s  sake  don’t  believe  that  you  are  a  poet  because  you 
can  make  verses  !  that  might  grow  to  a  fixed  idea.  What 
would  you  say  if  I  had  got  it  into  my  head  that  I  should  be¬ 
come  empress  of  Brazil  !  Would  it  not  be  a  foolish  thought  ? 
and  so  is  also  your  belief  that  you  are  a  poet !  ”  But  it  was  not 
at  all  my  thought  ;  it  would  however  have  been  a  playtime 
in  my  life,  a  consolation  for  me,  if  I  had  had  such  a  thought. 

During  my  stay  in  Copenhagen  I  was  much  blamed  for  my 
awkward  manners,  and  next  to  it  for  always  saying  straight  out 
what  I  was  thinking. 

At  the  house  of  Admiral  Wulff  I  saw  many  men  of  the 
most  distinguished  talent,  and  among  them  all  my  mind  paid 
the  greatest  homage  to  one,  —  that  was  the  poet  Adam 
Oehlenschlager.  I  heard  his  praise  resound  from  every 
mouth  around  me  ;  I  looked  up  to  him  with  the  most  pious  faith  • 
l  was  happy  when  one  evening,  in  a  large,  brilliantly  lighted 
drawing-room  —  where  I  deeply  felt  that  my  apparel  was  the 
■habbiest  there,  and  for  that  reason  I  concea'ed  myself  behind 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


58 

the  long  curtains  —  Oehlenschlager  came  to  me  and  offered 
me  his  hand.  I  could  have  fallen  before  him  on  n.y  knees. 
We  saw  each  other  often  in  WulfT’s  house,  where  also  Weyse 
used  to  come.  He  spoke  very  kindly  to  me  and  I  heard  him 
improvise  upon  the  piano.  Brondsted,  who  had  returned  to 
Denmark^  enlivened  it  by  his  eloquence.  Wulff  himself  real 
aloud  his  translations  of  Byron.  The  educated  and  refined 
gentleman  Adler,  the  friend  of  Christian  VIII.,  completed 
that  social  circle,  where  also  the  young  daughter  of  Oehlen¬ 
schlager,  Charlotte,  surprised  me  by  her  joyous,  merry  hu¬ 
mor.  What  excellent  days  and  evenings  for  me  those  days 
in  Copenhagen  were ! 

From  such  a  house  as  this  I,  after  a  few  days,  returned  to 
the  Rector,  and  felt  the  difference  deeply.  He  also  came  di¬ 
rect  from  Copenhagen,  where  he  had  heard  it  said  that  I  had 
read  in  company  one  of  my  own  poems.  He  looked  at  me  with 
a  penetrating  glance,  and  commanded  me  to  bring  him  the  poem, 
when,  if  he  found  in  it  one  spark  of  poetry,  he  would  forgive 
me.  I  tremblingly  brought  to  him  “  The  Dying  Child  ;  ”  he 
read  it,  *and  pronounced  it  to  be  sentimentality  and  idle  trash. 
He  gave  way  freely  to  his  anger.  If  he  had  believed  that  I 
wasted  my  time  in  writing  verses,  or  that  I  was  of  a  nature  which 
required  a  severe  treatment,  then  his  intention  would  have  been 
good  ;  but  he  could  not  pretend  this.  But  from  this  day  for¬ 
ward  my  situation  was  more  unfortunate  than  ever  ;  I  suffered 
so  severely  in  my  mind  that  I  was  very  near  sinking  under  it. 
That  was  the  darkest,  the  most  unhappy  time  in  my  life. 

Just  then  one  of  the  masters  went  to  Copenhagen,  and  re¬ 
lated  to  Collin  exactly  what  I  had  to  bear,  and  immediately  he 
removed  me  from  the  school  and  from  the  Rector’s  house. 
When,  in  taking  leave  of  him,  I  thanked  him  for  the  kindness 
which  I  had  received  from  him,  the  passionate  man  cursed  me, 
and  ended  by  saying  that  I  should  never  become  a  student, 
that  my  verses  would  grow  mouldy  on  the  floor  of  the  book¬ 
seller’s  shop,  and  that  I  myself  should  end  my  days  in  a  mad¬ 
house.  I  trembled  to  my  innermost  being,  and  left  him. 

Several  years  afterward,  when  my  writings  were  read,  when 
the  “  Improvisatore  ”  first  came  out,  I  met  him  in  Copenhay^.r  j 
kt  offered  me  his  hand  in  a  conciliatory  manner,  and  sr.v'  J>rat 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


59 

he  had  erred  respecting  me  and  had  treated  me  wrong;  but 
?t  now  was  all  the  same  to  me.  The  heavy,  dark  days  Had 
ilso  produced  their  blessing  in  my  life.  : 

A  young  man,  who  afterward  became  celebrated  in  Den¬ 
mark  for  his  zeal  in  the  Northern  languages  and  in  history, 
became  my  teacher.  I  hired  a  little  garret  ;  it  is  described 
in  the  “  Fiddler  ;  ”  and  in  “  The  Picture  Book  without  Pks- 
tures  ”  people  may  see  that  I  often  received  there  visits  from 
the  moon.  I  had  a  certain  sum  allowed  for  my  support;  but 
<is  instruction  was  to  be  paid  for,  I  had  to  make  savings  in 
other  ways.  A  few  families  through  the  week-days  gave  me 
a  place  at  their  tables.  I  was  a  sort  of  boarder,  as  many 
another  poor  student  in  Copenhagen  is  still :  there  was  a 
variety  in  it  ;  it  gave  me  an  insight  into  the  several  kinds  of 
family  life,  which  was  not  without  its  influence  on  me.  I 
studied  industriously ;  in  some  particular  branches  I  had  con¬ 
siderably  distinguished  myself  in  Helsingor,  especially  in 
mathematics  ;  these  were,  therefore,  now  much  more  left  to 
myself:  everything  tended  to  assist  me  in  my  Greek  and  Latin 
studies  ;  in  one  direction,  however,  and  that  the  one  in  which 
it  would  least  have  been  expected,  did  my  excellent  teacher 
find  much  to  do  ;  namely,  in  religion.  He  closely  adhered  to 
the  literal  meaning  of  the  Bible  ;  with  this  I  was  acquainted, 
because  from  my  first  entrance  in  the  school  I  had  clearly  un¬ 
derstood  what  was  said  and  taught  by  it.  I  received  gladly, 
both  with  feeling  and  understanding,  the  doctrine  that  God 
is  love:  everything  which  opposed  this  —  a  burning  hell, 
.herefore,  whose  fire  endured  forever  —  I  could  not  recognize. 
Released  from  the  distressing  existence  of  the  school  bench, 
f  now  expressed  myself  like  a  free  man  ;  and  my  teacher,  who 
was  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  amiable  of  human  beings, 
but  who  adhered  firmly  to  the  letter,  was  often  quite  distressed 
about  me.  We  disputed,  whilst  pure  flames  kindled  within 
Hir  hearts.  It  was  nevertheless  good  for  me  that  I  came  to 
tnis  unspoiled,  highly-gifted  young  man,  wrho  was  possessed  of 
a  nature  as  peculiar  as  my  own. 

That  which,  on  the  contrary,  was  an  error  in  me,  and  which 
became  very  perceptible,  was  a  pleasure  which  I  had,  not  in  ■ 
esting  with,  but  in  playing  with  my  best  feelings,  and  in  re- 


6o 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


garding  the  understanding  as  the  most  important  thing  in  the 
world.  The  Rector  had  completely  mistaken  my  undisguisedly 
candid  and  sensitive  character  ;  my  excitable  feelings  were 
made  ridiculous,  and  thrown  back  upon  themselves ;  and  now, 
when  I  could  freely  advance  upon  the  way  to  my  objec.,  this 
change  showed  itself  in  me.  From  severe  suffering  I  did  not 
rush  into  libertinism,  but  into  an  erroneous  endeavor  to  appear 
other  than  I  was.  I  ridiculed  feeling,  and  fancied  that  I  had 
quite  thrown  it  aside  ;  and  yet  I  could  be  made  wretched  for 
a  whole  day,  if  I  met  with  a  sour  countenance  where  I  ex¬ 
pected  a  friendly  one.  Every  poem  which  I  had  formerly 
written  with  tears,  I  now  parodied,  or  gave  to  it  a  ludicrous 
refrain  ;  one  of  which  I  called  “  The  Lament  of  the  Kitten/’ 
another,  “  The  Sick  Poet.”  The  few  poems  which  I  wrote  at 
that  time  were  all  of  a  humorous  character :  a  complete 
change  had  passed  over  me ;  the  stunted  plant  was  reset,  and 
now  began  to  put  forth  new  shoots. 

Wulff’s  eldest  daughter,  a  very  clever  and  lively  girl,  under¬ 
stood  and  encouraged  the  humor,  which  made  itself  evident 
in  my  few  poems ;  she  possessed  my  entire  confidence ;  she 
protected  me  like  a  good  sister,  and  had  great  influence  over 
me,  whilst  she  awoke  in  me  a  feeling  for  the  comic. 

At  this  time,  also,  a  fresh  current  of  life  was  sent  through 
the  Danish  literature  ;  for  this  the  people  had  an  interest,  and 
politics  played  no  part  in  it. 

Heiberg,  who  had  gained  the  acknowledged  reputation  of 
*i  poet  by  his  excellent  works,  “  Psyche  ”  and  “  Walter  the 
Potter,”  had  introduced  the  vaudeville  upon  the  Danish  stage  ; 
it  was  a  Danish  vaudeville,  blood  of  our  blood,  and  was  there¬ 
fore  received  with  acclamation,  and  supplanted  almost  every¬ 
thing  else.  Thalia  kept  carnivai  on  the  Danish  stage,  and 
Heiberg  was  her  secretary.  I  made  his  acquaintance  first  at 
Orsted’s.  Refined,  eloquent,  and  the  hero  of  the  day,  he 
pleased  me  in  a  high  degree  :  he  was  most  kind  to  me,  and  I 
visited  him  ;  he  considered  one  of  my  humorous  poems  wor 
thy  of  a  place  in  his  most  excellent  weekly  paper,  “  The 
Flying  Post.”  Shortly  before  I  had,  after  a  deal  of  trouble, 
got  my  poem  of  “  The  Dying  Child  ”  printed  in  a  paper , 
none  of  the  many  publishers  of  journals,  who  otherwise  accept 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


61 


of  the  most  lamentable  trash,  had  the  courage  to  piint  a  poem 
by  a  school-boy.  My  best  known  poem  they  printed  at  that 
time,  accompanied  by  an  excuse  for  it.  Heiberg  saw  it,  and 
gave  it  in  his  paper  an  honorable  place.  Two  humorous 
poems  signed  “  H.  ”  were  truly  my  debut  with  him. 

I  remember  the  first  evening  when  the  “  Flying  Post  ”  ap¬ 
peared  with  my  verses  in  it.  I  was  with  a  family  who  wished 
me  well,  but  who  regarded  my  poetical  talent  as  quite  insig¬ 
nificant,  and  who  found  something  to  censure  in  every  line. 
The  master  of  the  house  entered  with  the  “  Flying  Post  ”  in 
his  hand. 

“  This  evening,”  said  he,  “  there  are  two  excellent  poems : 
they  are  by  Heiberg ;  nobody  else  could  write  anything  like 
them.”  And  now  my  poems  were  received  with  rapture. 
The  daughter,  who  was  in  my  secret,  exclaimed,  in  her  delight, 
.‘hat  I  was  the  author.  They  were  all  struck  into  silence,  and 
were  vexed.  That  wounded  me  deeply. 

One  of  our  least  esteemed  writers,  but  a  man  of  rank*  who 
w as  very  hospitable,  gave  me  one  day  a  seat  at  his  table.  He 
told  me  that  a  new  year’s  gift  would  come  out,  and  that  he 
was  applied  to  for  a  contribution.  I  said  that  a  little  poem 
of  mine,  at  the  wish  of  the  publisher,  would  appear  in  the 
same  new  year’s  gift. 

“  What,  then  :  everybody  and  anybody  are  to  contribute  to 
this  book  !  ”  said  the  man  in  vexation  :  “  then  he  will  need 
nothing  from  me ;  I  certainly  can  hardly  give  him  anything.” 

My  teacher  dwelt  at  a  considerable  distance  from  me.  I 
went  to  him  twice  each  day,  and  on  the  way  there  my  thoughts 
were  occupied  with  my  lessons.  On  my  return,  however,  I 
breathed  more  freely,  and  then  bright  poetical  ideas  passed 
through  my  brain,  but  they  were  never  committed  to  paper  ; 
only  five  or  six  humorous  poems  were  written  in  the  course 
of  the  year,  and  these  disturbed  me  less  when  they  were  laid 
to  rest  on  paper  than  if  they  had  remained  in  my  mind. 

In  September,  1828,  I  was  a  student.  Oehlenschlager,  who 
was  Dean  at  that  time,  pressed  my  hand  and  bid  me  welcome 
as  civis  academicus :  that  was  an  act  of  great  importance  for 
me.  I  was  already  twenty-three  years  old,  but  still  much  a 
child  in  my  whole  nature  and  my  manner  of  speaking.  4  lit 


62 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


tie  incident  of  these  days  will  perhaps  give  you  an  idea  of  it 
Shortly  before  the  examination  day  I  saw  a  young  man  at  the 
dinner-table  of  H.  C.  Orsted  :  he  looked  very  embarrassed  and 
retiring.  I  had  not  seen  him  there  before,  and  thought  that 
he  had  but  just  arrived  from  the  country.  I  asked  him  with¬ 
out  ceremony,  — 

“  Are  you  going  up  to  the  examination  this  year  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  he  said  with  a  smile,  “  I  am  going  up  there.” 

“  J  also,”  said  I,  and  spoke  now  with  him  as  a  comrade  a 
good  deal  about  this  great  event,  fie  was  the  professor  who 
was  to  examine  me  in  mathematics,  the  richly  gifted  and  ex¬ 
cellent  Von  Schmidten,  who  in  his  external  appearance  was 
so  much  like  Napoleon,  that  in  Paris  he  was  taken  for  him. 
When  we  met  at  the  examination-table  we  were  both  very 
much  embarrassed  ;  he  was  as  kind  as  he  was  learned,  and 
wished  to  encourage  me,  but  did  not  know  how  to  do  it ;  he 
leaned  over  to  me  and  whispered,  — 

“  What  is  to  be  the  first  poetical  work  you  will  give  us, 
when  you  have  finished  your  examination  ?  ” 

I  gazed  with  astonishment  on  him  and  answered  anxiously,— 
“  I  don’t  know,  sir,  but  be  so  kind  as  not  to  give  me  too  diffi¬ 
cult  questions  in  mathematics  !  ” 

“  You  know,  then,  something  ?  ”  said  he,  in  a  low  voice. 
“Yes,  sir,  I  know  mathematics  tolerably  ;  in  the  Helsingor 
school  I  often  read  ‘  the  supplements  ’  with  the  other  scholars, 
and  I  got  the  certificate  ‘  remarkably  good,’  but  now  I  am 
afraid.”  In  that  style  the  professor  and  the  pupil  conversed, 
and  during  the  examination,  in  which  he  tore  all  his  pens  to 
pieces,  he  did  not  say  anything,  but  only  put  one  of  the  pens 
aside  to  write  down  the  result  with. 

When  the  examination  ( Examen  Artium )  was  over,  the 
ideas  and  thoughts,  by  which  I  was  pursued  on  the  way  to  my 
teacher  flew  like  a  swarm  of  bees  out  into  the  world,  and  in¬ 
deed,  into  my  first  work,  “  A  Journey  on  Foot  from  the  Holm 
Canal  to  the  East  Point  of  Amack,”  —  a  peculiar,  humorous 
book,  a  kind  of  fantastic  arabesque,  but  one  which  fully  exhib¬ 
ited  my  own  individual  character  at  that  time,  my  disposition  to 
sport  with  everything,  and  to  jest  in  tears  over  my  own  feel¬ 
ings —  a  fantastic,  gayly  colored  tapestry  work  was  this  poet 
'cal  improvisation. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


No  publisher  had  the  courage  to  bring  out  that  juvenile 
work.  I  ventured  therefore  to  do  it  myself,  and  in  a  lew  days 
after  its  appearance,  the  publisher  Reitzel  bought  from  me  the 
copyright  of  the  second  edition,  and  after  a  while  he  had  a 
third.  In  Fahlun,  in  Sweden,  the  work  was  reprinted  in  Dan¬ 
ish,  a  thing  which  had  happened  only  to  the  chief  works  of 
Oehlenschlager.  A  German  translation  was  some  years  late  r 
published  in  Hamburg. 

Everybody  in  Copenhagen  read  my  book  ;  I  heard  nothing 
but  praise,  only  a  protector  of  rank  gave  me  a  severe  lecture, 
but  it  struck  me  as  rather  comical.  The  man  found  in  the 
“  Journey  on  Foot  ”  a  satire  of  the  Royal  Theatre,  which  he  not 
only  considered  as  unseemly  but  also  as  ungrateful :  unseemly 
because  it  was  a  royal  theatre,  or,  as  he  said,  the  king’s  house  ; 
and  ungrateful  because  I  had  free  admission  to  it. 

This  reproof  of  an  otherwise  reasonable  man,  was  put  out 
of  mind  by  the  triumph  and  praise  the  book  received.  I  was 
a  “student,”  a  poet.  I  hs>d  attained  the  highest  goal  of  my 
wishes.  Heiberg  noticed  the  book  in  a  very  kind  and  beauti¬ 
ful  manner  in  the  “Monthly  Journal  of  Literature,”  and  had 
earlier  given  extracts  from  it  in  his  “  Flying  Post.”  The  book 
was  very  much  read  in  Norway,  and  that  vexed  Poul  Moller, 
so  that  he  criticised  it  without  indulgence. 

I  did  not  know  anything  of  it,  and  could  not  believe  that 
anybody  should  not  rejoice  in  the  “Journey  on  Foot  to 
Amack.” 

The  same  year  about  two  hundred  young  men  passed  as 
“  students,”  and  among  them  were  several  who  made  verses, 
and  had  even  got  them  published  ;  it  was  said  in  jest  that 
that  year  four  great  and  twelve  minor  poets  were  made  stu¬ 
dents,  and  in  truth,  not  counting  it  too  exactly,  we  could  gel 
out  that  number.  To  the  great  ones  belonged  Arnesen. 
whose  firs^ vaudeville,  “  The  Intrigue  in  the  People’s  Theatre,” 
was  brought  on  the  stage  of  the  Royal  Theatre  ;  F.  J.  Hansen, 
who  at  that  time  published  “  Readings  for  the  Beau  Monde  ;  ” 
Hollard  Nielsen  ;  and  last,  as  the  fourth  poet,  H.  C.  Andersen. 

Among  the  twelve  small  ones  was  one  who,  later,  unques 
tionably  became  one  of  the  great  in  the  Danish  literature,  — 
“  Adam  Homo’s”  poet,  Paludan  Muller.  He  had  not  yet 

A  /r 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


64 

published  anything,  and  it  was  only  known  among  his  com¬ 
rades  that  he  made  verses.  One  day  I  got  a  letter  from  him 
in  which  he  proposed  that  we  should  publish  a  weekly  paper 
together. 

“  You  will  perhaps  be  surprised  to  get  such  a  proposition 
from  me,  from  whom  you  have  not  yet  seen  anything  which 
could  induce  you  to  suppose  me  equal  to  such  an  enter¬ 
prise  ;  yet  I  believe  that  I  dare  assure  you  with  a  certain 
kind  of  self-confidence  that  I  am  not  the  step-child  of  the 
Muses,  as  may  be  tested  by  the  collection  of  poems  I  have 
written  for  my  own  pleasure,  which  are  lying  in  my  drawer  at 
home.”  The  plan  and  conditions  followed  ;  there  were  not  to 
be  translations  or  copying  from  other  papers,  but  only  original 
articles,  etc.  The  letter  was  accompanied  by  his  poem  “  The 
Smile,”  as  a  specimen.  I  had  no  fancy  at  all  to  be  tied  down 
to  a  newspaper,  and  so  the  matter  was  dropped. 

Carl  Bagger  and  I  had,  before  the  “Journey  on  Foot  ”  was 
published,  agreed  to  publish  together  our  poems  in  one  vol¬ 
ume,  but  when  my  book  met  with  so  much  praise  and  found 
so  many  readers,  Bagger  declared  positively  that  our  poems 
could  not  now  go  together,  because  it  would  be  just  as  if  his 
poems  had  to  be  brought  forward  by  mine  ;  the  project  was 
given  up,  but  not  our  friendly  relation. 

I  was  received  with  great  consideration  by  my  fellow-stu¬ 
dents,  and  I  was  in  a  youthful  poetical  intoxication,  in  a  whirl 
of  joy,  sporting  and  searching  for  the  wrong  side  in  everything. 
In  this  state  I  wrote  in  rhyme  my  first  dramatic  work,  the 
vaudeville,  “  Love  on  the  Nicholas  Tower  ;  or,  What  says 
the  Pit  ?  ”  which  had  one  essential  fault,  noticed  also  in  the 
“  Monthly  Journal,”  “  that  of  satirizing  what  no  longer  existed 
amongst  us,  namely,  the  Fate  tragedies  of  the  Middle  Ages.” 

My  fellow-students  received  the  piece  with  acclamation  and 
shouted  “  Long  live  the  author!  ”  I  was  overwhelmed  with  joy, 
and  thought  it  to  be  of  more  importance  than  it  deserved.  I 
could  not  contain  myself.  I  rushed  out  from  the  theatre  into 
the  street,  and  then  to  Collin’s  house,  where  his  wife  was 
alone  at  home.  I  threw  myself  down  upon  a  chair  almost  ex 
hausted  and  wept  in  convulsions.  The  sympathizing  lady  did 
/lot  know  what  to  think,  and  trying  to  console  me,  said,  — • 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


65 

u  Don’t  let  it  grieve  you  so  much.  Oehlenschlager  has  also 
been  hissed,  and  many  other  great  poets.”  —  “  They  have  not 
hissed  at  all,”  exclaimed  I  sobbing :  “  they  have  applauded 
and  cried  Vivat  !  ” 

I  was  now  a  happy  human  being,  thinking  well  of  all  man¬ 
kind  ;  I  possessed  the  courage  of  a  poet  and  the  heart  of  a 
youth. 

All  houses  began  to  be  open  to  me  ;  I  flew  from  circle  to 
circle  in  happy  self-contentment.  Under  all  these  external  and 
internal  affections,  I  still  however  devoted  myself  industriously 
to  study,  so  that  without  any  teacher  I  passed  my  second  aca¬ 
demical  examination,  Examen  philologicum  et  philosophicum , 
with  highest  marks. 

A  very  peculiar  scene  passed  at  the  examination  by  H.  C. 

•  • 

Orsted.  I  had  answered  all  his  questions  very  well,  which 
pleased  him,  and  when  I  had  finished  he  called  me  back 
again,  and  said,  —  “I  must  ask  you  still  one  question  more  ;” 
and  with  a  bright  smile  :  “  Tell  me,  what  do  you  know  about 
electro-magnetism  ?  ”  —  “I  have  never  heard  that  word,”  an¬ 
swered  I.  “Think  a  moment  !  you  have  before  answered  so 
well,  you  must  also  know  something  of  electro-magnetism  !  ” 

“  I  have  not  read  anything  about  it  in  your  chemistry,”  said 
I  with  precision. 

“  I  know  it,  but  I  have  spoken  about  it  at  my  lectures  !  ” 

“  I  have  been  at  all  your  lectures  but  one,  and  you  probably 
spoke  of  it  at  that  time,  for  I  do  not  know  a  single  bit  of  it,  — 
not  even  the  name.” 

Orsted  smiled  at  that  unusual  confession,  nodded  and  said, — 

It  is  a  pity  that  you  did  not  know  it  —  otherwise  I  should 
have  given  you  ‘  prae,’  now  you  can  only  get  ‘  laud  ;  ’  for  the 

rest,  you  have  answered  very  well.” 

•  • 

Later  when  I  came  home  to  Orsted,  I  asked  him  to  tell  me 
a  little  about  electro-magnetism,  and  now  I  heard  for  the  first 
time  of  it,  and  of  his  relation  to  it. 

Ten  years  later,  when  the  electro-magnetical  thread  was  ex¬ 
hibited  in  the  Polytechnic  Academy  in  Copenhagen,  I  wrote 
an  article,  at  Orsted’s  express  wish,  under  the  signature  “  Y,” 
in  the  “  Copenhagen  Post,”  I  believe,  about  the  magnetic 
telegraph  which  was  carried  from  the  front  to  the  back  build- 

5 


56 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


ing  of  the  Polytechnic  Academy.  I  drew  the  attention  of  the 
citizens  to  that  invention,  which  science  owes  to  a  Dane. 

At  Christmas  I  brought  out  the  first  collected  edition  of 
my  poems,  which  met  with  great  praise.  I  liked  to  listen  tc 
the  sounding  bell  of  praise.  I  had  such  an  overflow  of  youth 
and  happiness.  Life  lay  bright  with  sunshine  before  me. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


UNTIL  now  I  had  only  seen  a  small  part  of  my  native 
land,  —  that  is  to  say,  a  few  points  in  Funen  and  Zealand, 
as  well  as  Moen’s  Klint,  which  last  is  truly  one  of  our  most 
beautiful  places  ;  the  beech-woods  there  hang  like  a  garland 
over  the  white  chalk  cliffs,  from  which  a  view  is  obtained  far 
over  tho  Baltic.  I  wished,  therefore,  in  the  summer  of  1830, 
to  devote  my  first  literary  proceeds  to  seeing  Jutland,  and 
making  myself  more  thoroughly  acquainted  with  my  own 
Funen.  I  had  no  idea  how  much  solidity  of  mind  I  should 
derive  from  this  summer  excursion,  or  what  a  change  was 
about  to  take  place  in  my  inner  life. 

It  was  especially  the  heaths  of  Jutland  that  I  rejoiced  to  see, 
and  if  possible  I  wanted  to  meet  some  gypsy  family  there. 
My  interest  had  been  excited  by  stories  I  had  heard,  and  by 
the  novels  of  Steen  Blicher.  The  country  was  then  not  so 
much  visited  as  it  is  now. 

Steam-navigation  had  just  been  established  ;  a  bad,  slow- 
sailing  ship  called  “  Dania  ”  made  the  voyage  in  about  twenty- 
four  hours,  —  an  unheard  of  quick  passage  at  that  time. 

The  steamships  had  not  yet  come  to  be  believed  in.  The 
year  before  I  made  a  passage  in  such  a  ship,  —  “  Caledonia,” 
the  first  steamboat  seen  in  our  waters  ;  all  the  seamen  ridi¬ 
culed  it  and  nicknamed  it  “  Puddle-Malene.” 

•  • 

H.  C.  Orsted  was  of  course  full  of  delight  over  this  world- 
renowned  invention,  and  it  was  verv  amusing  to  hear  at  a  dinner 
where  I  was  present,  an  old  sailor,  a  relation  of  Mr.  Orsted, 
who  sat  near  him,  arguing  against  these  “  smoke-ships.” 

“  Prom  the  creation  of  the  world,”  said  he.  “  till  this  time,  we 
have  been  satisfied  with  reasonable  ships  driven  by  wind,  but 
now  they  are  trying  to  make  something  better  ;  as  often  as  one 
of  those  ‘  smoke-caps  ’  is  passing,  I  cannot  forbear  taking  my 
speaking-trumpet  and  scolding  at  it  as  long  as  it  can  hear 


68 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


me.”  It  was  i  great  event  to  go  in  a  steamboat  al  that  time, 
and  it  sounds  almost  incredible  nowadays,  when  steamships 
are  such  every-day  matters,  that  we  think  of  their  invention  as 
something  very  remote  ;  to  hear  it  said  that  Napoleon,  when 
he  took  refuge  with  the  English,  saw  for  the  first  time  a  steam¬ 
boat  in  motion. 

A  whole  night  in  the  Kattegat,  on  board  this  new  kind  of 
ship,  made  a  deep  impression  on  my  fancy.  We  had  rough 
weather  indeed,  and  I  was  sea-sick  ;  it  was  only  the  next  day 
in  the  evening  that  we  reached  Aarhuus.  There,  and  in  all 
the  small  towns  of  Jutland,  my  “Journey  on  Foot”  was  well 
known,  as  were  also  my  humorous  poems,  and  I  was  kindly 
received.  I  drove  over  the  heath,  where  all  was  novel ;  but 
it  was  bad  weather,  and  having  very  light  travelling  clothes, 
the  damp,  chilly  sea-wind  affected  me  so  severely  that  I  was 
obliged  to  change  my  route  from  Yiborg,  where  I  stopped  a 
few  days,  going  southeast  and  giving  up  entirely  the  west  coast ; 
that  did  not  prevent  me,  however,  from  writing  “  Fancies  by 
the  Western  Sea,”  and  “  Pictures  of  the  West  Coast  of  Jutland,” 
which  I  never  had  seen,  but  only  knew  by  others’  verbal  de¬ 
scriptions. 

I  saw  now  the  country  all  round  Skanderborg,  Veile,  and 
Kolding,  and  from  there  I  went  to  Funen,  enjoying  the  coun¬ 
try-house  life,  and  was  received  as  a  dear  guest  several  weeks 
at  the  country  seat  “  Maryhill,”  near  the  canal  by  Odense  :  the 
widow  of  the  printer  Iversen  was  my  hostess. 

This  spot  was  in  my  earliest  youth  my  ideal  of  a  country- 
house.  The  little  garden  was  plentifully  supplied  with  in¬ 
scriptions  and  verses,  which  told  you  what  you  were  to  think 
and  feel  at  each  place.  Near  the  canal,  where  the  ships 
passed,  was  built  a  little  battery,  mounted  with  wooden  can¬ 
non  ;  there  was  also  a  watch-house  and  a  sentry-box  with  a 
wooden  soldier,  all  most  childishly  beautiful. 

Here  I  lived  with  this  intelligent,  kind  old  woman,  who  was 
surrounded  by  a  troop  of  bewitching,  lovely  grandchildren, 
all  young  girls.  The  oldest  of  these,  Henriette,  published  at 
a  later  period  two  novels,  “  Aunt  Anna,”  and  “  The  Daughter 
of  an  Authoress.” 

The  weeks  passed  with  merriment  and  joy.  I  wrote  a  couple 


THE  STORY  CT  MY  LIFE . 


69 

of  humorous  poems,  among  which  was  “  The  Heart  Thief,” 
and  occupied  myself  with  a  romance,  “  The  Dwarf  of  Chris¬ 
tian  II.,”  for  which  I  obtained  some  historical  studies  from 
the  learned  antiquary  Vedel-Simonsen,  of  Elvedgaard,  near 
Bogense.  I  went  through  about  sixteen  written  sheets,  which 
I  read  to  Ingemann  who  seemed  to  like  them.  I  may  attribute 
to  them  the  favorable  reconynendation  he  gave  me  when  I 
offered  my  travelling  petition. 

Poems  sprung  forth  upon  paper,  but  of  the  comic  fewer  and 
fewer.  Sentiment,  which  I  had  so  often  derided,  would  now 
be  avenged.  I  arrived,  in  the  course  of  my  journey,  at  the 
house  of  a  rich  family  in  a  small  city ;  and  here  suddenly  a 
new  world  opened  before  me,  —  an  immense  world,  which  yet 
could  be  contained  in  four  lines,  which  I  wrote  at  that  time :  — 

A  pair  of  dark  eyes  fixed  my  sight  ; 

They  were  my  world,  my  home,  my  delight  ;  . 

The  soul  beamed  in  them,  and  childlike  peace, 

And  never  on  earth  will  their  memory  cease. 

New  plans  of  life  occupied  me.  I  would  give  up  writing 
poetry,  —  to  what  could  it  lead  ?  I  would  study  theology,  and 
become  a  preacher  ;  1  had  only  one  thought,  and  that  was  she. 
But  it  was  self-delusion  :  she  loved  another ;  she  married 
him.  It  was  not  till  several  years  later  that  I  felt  and  ac¬ 
knowledged  that  it  was  best,  both  for  her  and  for  myself,  that 
things  had  fallen  out  as  they  had.  She  had  no  idea,  perhaps, 
how  deep  my  feeling  for  her  had  been,  or  what  an  influence  it 
produced  in  me.  She  had  become  the  excellent  wife  of  a 
good  man,  and  a  happy  mother.  God’s  blessing  rest  upon 
her! 

In  my  “  Journey  on  Foot,”  and  in  most  of  my  writings,  sat¬ 
ire  had  been  the  prevailing  characteristic.  This  displeased 
many  people,  who  thought  that  this  bent  of  mind  could  lead 
to  no  good  purpose.  The  critics  now  blamed  me  precisely 
for  that  which  a  far  deeper  feeling  had  expelled  from  my 
breast.  A  new  collection  of  poetry,  “  Fancies  and  Sketches,” 
which  was  published  for  the  new  year,  showed  satisfactorily 
what  my  heart  suffered.  A  paraphrase  of  the  history  of  my 
own  heart  appeared  in  a  serious  vaudeville,  “  Parting  and  Meet¬ 
ing,”  with  this  difference  only,  that  here  the  love  was  mutual : 
die  piece  was  not  presented  on  the  stage  till  five  years  later. 


70 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Among  my  young  friends  in  Copenhagen  at  that  time  was 
Orla  Lehmann,  who  afterwards  rose  higher  in  popular  favor, 
on  account  of  his  political  efforts,  than  any  man  in  Denmark. 
Full  of  animation,  eloquent  and  undaunted,  his  character  of 
mind  was  one  which  interested  me  also.  The  German  lan¬ 
guage  was  much  studied  at  his  father’s  ;  they  had  received 
there  Heine’s  poems,  and  these  were  very  attractive  for  young 
Orla.  He  lived  in  the  country,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
castle  of  Fredricksberg.  I  went  there  to  see  him,  and  he  sang 
as  I  came  one  of  Heine’s  verses,  “Thalatta,  Thalatta,  du 
eviges  Meer.”  We  read  Heine  together  ;  the  afternoon  and 
the  evening  passed,  and  I  was  obliged  to  remain  there  all 
night ;  but  I  had  on  this  evening  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
poet,  who,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  sang  from  the  soul ;  he  sup¬ 
planted  Hoffman,  who,  as  might  be  seen  by  my  “  Journey  on 
Foot,”  had  formerly  had  the  greatest  influence  on  me.  In 
my  youth  there  were  only  three  authors  who  as  it  were  infused 
themselves  into  my  blood,  —  Walter  Scott,  Hoffman,  and 
Heine. 

I  betrayed  more  and  more  in  my  writings  an  unhealthy  turn 
of  mind.  I  felt  an  inclination  to  seek  for  the  melancholy  in 
life,  and  to  linger  on  the  dark  side  of  things ;  I  became  sensi¬ 
tive,  and  thought  rather  of  the  blame  than  of  the  praise  which 
was  lavished  on  me.  My  late  school  education,  which  was 
forced,  and  my  impulse  to  become  an  author  whilst  I  was  yet 
a  student,  make  it  evident  that  my  first  work,  the  “Journey 
on  Foot,”  was  not  without  grammatical  errors.  Had  I  only 
paid  some  one  to  correct  the  proofs,  which  was  a  work  I  was 
unaccustomed  to,  then  no  charge  of  this  kind  could  have  been 
brought  against  me.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  people  laughed  at 
these  errors,  and  dwelt  upon  them,  passing  over  carelessly  that 
in  the  book  which  had  merit.  I  know  people  who  only  read 
my  poems  to  find  out  errors ;  they  noted  down,  for  instance, 
how  often  I  used  the  word  beautiful ,  or  some  similar  word. 
A  gentleman,  now  a  clergyman,  at  that  time  a  writer  of  vaude¬ 
villes  and  a  critic,  was  not  ashamed,  in  a  company  where  I 
was,  to  go  through  several  of  my  poems  in  this  style  ;  so  that 
a  little  girl  of  six  years  old,  who  heard  with  amazement  that 
he  discovered  everything  to  be  wrong,  took  the  book,. and 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


71 


pointing  out  the  conjunction  and ,  said,  “  There  is  yet  a  litt’e 
word  about  which  you  have  not  scolded.”  He  felt  what  a 
reproof  lay  in  the  remark  of  the  child  ;  he  looked  ashamed 
and  kissed  the  little  one.  All  this  wounded  me ;  but  I  had, 
since  my  school-days,  become  somewhat  timid,  and  that  caused 
me  to  take  it  all  quietly :  I  was  morbidly  sensitive,  and  I  was 
good-natured  to  a  fault.  Everybody  knew  it,  and  some  were 
on  that  account  almost  cruel  to  me.  Everybody  wished  to 
teach  me ;  almost  everybody  said  that  I  was  spoiled  by  praise, 
and  therefore  they  would  speak  the  truth  to  me.  Thus  1 
heard  continually  of  my  faults,  the  real  and  the  ideal  weak¬ 
nesses.  In  the  mean  time,  however,  my  feelings  burst  forth  ; 
and  then  I  said  that  I  would  become  a  poet  whom  they  should 
see  honored.  But  this  was  regarded  only  as  the  crowning 
mark  of  the  most  unbearable  vanity  ;  and  from  house  to  house 
it  was  repeated.  I  was  a  good  man,  they  said,  but  one  of  the 
vainest  in  existence  ;  and  in  that  very  time  I  was  often  ready 
wholly  to  despair  of  my  abilities,  and  had,  as  in  the  darkest 
days  of  my  school-life,  a  feeling  as  if  my  whole  talents  were  a 
self-deception.  I  almost  believed  so ;  but  it  was  more  than  I 
could  bear,  to  hear  the  same  thing  said,  sternly  and  jeeringly, 
by  others  ;  and  if  I  then  uttered  a  proud,  an  inconsiderate 
word,  it  was  addressed  to  the  scourge  with  which  I  was  smit¬ 
ten  ;  and  when  those  who  smite  are  those  we  love,  then  do  the 
scourges  become  scorpions. 

For  this  reason  Collin  thought  that  I  should  make  a  little 
journey,  in  order  to  divert  my  mind  and  furnish  me  with 
new  ideas.  I  had  by  industry  and  frugality  laid  aside  a  little 
sum  of  money,  so  that  I  resolved  to  spend  a  couple  of  weeks 
n  North  Germany. 

In  the  spring  of  1831,  I  left  Denmark  for  the  first  time.  1 
saw  Liibeck  and  Hamburg.  Everything  astonished  me  and 
occupied  my  mind.  There  were  as  yet  no  railways  here  ;  the 
broad,  deep,  and  sandy  route  passed  over  the  heaths  of  Lu¬ 
nenburg,  which  looked  as  I  had  read  of  them  in  the  admired 
u  Labyrinth  ”  of  Baggesen. 

I  arrived  at  Braunschweig.  I  saw  mountains  for  the  first 
time,  —  the  Hartzgebirge  —  and  went  on  foot  from  Goslar 
over  the  Brocken  to  Halle, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


72 

The  world  expanded  so  astonishingly  before  me  my  good 
humor  returned  to  me  as  to  the  bird  of  passage,  but  sorrow  is 
the  flock  of  sparrows,  which  remains  behind  and  builds  in  the 
nests  of  the  birds  of  passage. 

In  the  book  at  the  summit  of  the  Brocken,  where  so  many 
travellers  write  down  their  names,  thoughts,  and  sentiments,  I 
also  wrote  down  mine  in  a  little  verse  :  — 

Above  the  clouds  I  stand  here, 

Yet  must  my  heart  confess 
That  nearer  far  to  heaven  I  was 
When  I  her  hand  could  press. 

Next  year  a  friend  told  me  that  he  had  seen  my  verse, 
when  he  visited  the  Brocken,  and  a  countryman  had  written 
below,  “  Poor  little  Andersen,  save  your  verses  for  Elmquist’s 
‘  Reading  book,’  and  trouble  us  not  with  them  abroad,  where 
they  never  find  their  way  except  when  you  come  and  write 
them  down.” 

In  Dresden  I  made  acquaintance  with  Tieck.  Tngemann 

had  given  me  a  letter  to  him.  I  heard  him  one  evening  read 

aloud  one  of  Shakespeare’s  plays.  On  taking  leave  of  him,  he 

wished  me  a  poet’s  success,  embraced  and  kissed  me  ;  which 

made  the  deepest  impression  upon  me.  The  expression  of  his 

eyes  I  shall  never  forget.  I  left  him  with  tears,  and  prayed 

most  fervently  to  God  for  strength  to  enable  me  to  pursue 

the  way  after  which  my  whole  soul  strove  —  strength,  which 

should  enable  me  to  express  that  which  I  felt  in  my  soul ;  and 

that  when  I  next  saw  Tieck,  I  might  be  known  and  valued 

by  him.  It  was  not  until  several  years  afterward,  when  my 

later  works  were  translated  into  German,  and  well  received 

in  his  country,  that  we  saw  each  other  again  ;  I  felt  the  true 

hand-pressure  of  him  who  had  given  to  me,  in  my  second 

father-land,  the  kiss  of  consecratioh. 

•  • 

In  Berlin,  a  letter  of  Orsted’s  procured  me  the  acquaint¬ 
ance  of  Chamisso.  That  grave  man,  with  his  long  locks  and 
honest  eyes,  opened  the  door  to  me  himself,  read  the  letter,  and 
I  know  not  how  it  was,  but  we  understood  each  other  immedi¬ 
ately.  I  felt  perfect  confidence  in  him,  and  told  him  so,  though 
it  was  in  bad  German.  Chamisso  understood  Danish;  I  gave 
him  my  poems,  and  he  was  the  first  who  translated  any  oJ 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


73 

them,  and  thus  introduced  me  into  Germany.  It  was  thus  he 
spoke  of  me  at  that  time  in  the  “  Morgenblatt :  ”  “  Gifted  with 
wit,  fancy,  and  humor,  and  a  national  naivete,  Andersen  has  still 
in  his  power  tones  which  awaken  deeper  echoes.  He  under¬ 
stands,  in  particular,  how  with  perfect  ease,  by  a  few  slight  but 
graphic  touches,  to  call  into  existence  little  pictures  and  land¬ 
scapes,  but  which  are  often  so  peculiarly  local  as  not  to  inter¬ 
est  those  who  are  unfamiliar  with  the  home  of  the  poet.  Per¬ 
haps  that  which  may  be  translated  from  him,  or  which  is  so 
already,  may  be  the  least  calculated  to  give  a  proper  idea  of 
him.” 

Chamisso  became  a  life-long  friend  to  me.  The  pleasure 
which  he  had  in  my  later  writings  may  be  seen  by  the  printed 
letters  addressed  to  me  in  the  collected  edition  of  his  works. 

The  little  journey  in  Germany  had  great  influence  upon  me, 
as  my  Copenhagen  friends  acknowledged.  The  impressions 
of  the  journey  were  immediately  written  down,  and  I  gave 
them  forth  under  the  title  of  “  Shadow  Pictures.”  Whether  I 
were  actually  improved  or  not,  there  still  prevailed  at  home 
the  same  petty  pleasure  in  dragging  out  my  faults,  the  same 
perpetual  schooling  of  me  ;  and  I  was  weak  enough  to  endure 
it  from  those  who  were  officious  meddlers.  I  seldom  made  a 
joke  of  it ;  but  if  I  did  so,  it  was  called  arrogance  and  vanity, 
and  it  was  asserted  that  I  never  would  listen  to  rational  peo¬ 
ple.  Such  an  instructor  once  asked  me  whether  I  wrote  Dog 
vith  a  little  d ;  —  he  had  found  such  an  error  of  the  press  in 
my  last  work.  I  replied,  jestingly,  “  Yes,  because  I  here  spoke 
of  a  lit .le  dog.” 

But  these  are  small  troubles,  people  will  say.  Yes,  but 
they  are  drops  which  wear  hollows  in  the  rock.  I  speak  of  it 
here  ;  I  feel  a  necessity  to  do  so  ;  here  to  protest  against  the 
accusation  of  vanity,  which,  since  no  other  error  can  be  dis¬ 
covered  in  my  private  life,  is  seized  upon,  and  even  now  is 
thrown  at  me  like  an  old  medal. 

I  willingly  read  for  everybody  whom  I  visited  what  I  lately 
had  written  that  pleased  me.  I  had  not  yet  learned  by 
experience  how  seldom  an  author  ought  to  do  this,  at  least 
„n  this  country.  Any  gentleman  or  lady  who  can  hammer 
in  a  piano  or  sing  a  few  songs,  has  no  hesitation,  in  whatever 


THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE. 


74 

company  they  may  enter,  to  carry  their  music-book  with  them 
and  place  themselves  before  the  piano  ;  it  is  but  very  seldom 
that  any  remark  is  made  on  that ;  an  author  may  read  aloud 
others’  poetical  works  but  not  his  own  —  that  is  vanity. 

That  has  been  said  many  times  about  Oehlenschlager,  who 
was  always  willing  to  read  his  works  in  the  different  circles 
where  he  went,  and  read  them  very  beautifully  too.  How 
many  remarks  I  have  heard  about  it  from  people  who  seemed 
to  think  that  they  made  themselves  interesting  thereby,  or 
showed  their  superiority  to  the  poet :  if  they  allowed  them¬ 
selves  to  do  thus  toward  Oehlenschlager,  how  much  further 
could  they  not  then  go  toward  Andersen  ? 

Sometimes  my  good  humor  lifted  me  above  the  bitterness 
that  surrounded  me  :  I  discovered  weakness  in  others  as  well 
as  in  myself.  In  such  a  moment  I  brought  forth  my  little 
poem,  “  Snik-snak,”  1  which  was  printed,  and  I  was  made  the 
subject  of  many  verses  and  poems  in  papers  and  periodicals. 
A  lady  whom  I  used  to  visit  sent  for  me,  and  catechised  me 
to  know  “  if  I  ever  visited  houses  where  this  poem  had  any 
appropriateness ;  she  did  not  believe  that  it  had  anything 
to  do  with  the  company  that  met  at  her  house,  but  as  I 
was  a  guest  there,  people  would  imagine  that  her  house 
was  the  place  I  had  aimed  at,”  and  then  she  gave  me  a  good 
lecture. 

In  the  vestibule  of  the  theatre  one  evening  a  well-dressed 
lady,  unknown  to  me,  came  up  very  near  me,  and  with  an  ex¬ 
pression  of  indignation  looked  me  in  the  face  and  said,  “  Snik- 
snak.”  I  took  off  my  hat :  politeness  does  for  an  answer  ! 

From  the  end  of  the  year  1828,  to  the  beginning  of  1839,  I 
maintained  myself  alone  by  my  writings.  It  was  difficult  for 
me  to  pull  through,  —  doubly  difficult,  because  my  dress  must 
in  some  measure  accord  with  the  circles  into  which  I  went. 
To  produce,  and  always  to  be  producing,  was  destructive,  nay 
impossible.  I  translated  a  few  pieces  for  the  theatre,  —  “  La 
Quarantaine,”  and  “La  Reine  de  seize  ans,”  —  and  wrote  the 
text  for  a  couple  of  operas. 

Through  the  writings  of  Hoffmann  my  attention  had  been 
turned  to  the  masked  comedies  of  Gozzi,  and  finding  among 

1  A  popular  expression  for  senseless  gabble  and  chatter. 


THE  STORY  CE  MY  LIFE . 


75 

these  “  II  Corvo  ”  to  be  an  excellent  subject  for  an  opera  text, 
I  read  Meisling’s  translation  of  it,  became  quite  enraptured, 
and  in  a  few  weeks  I  wrote  my  opera  text  of  “  The  Raven.” 

I  gave  it  to  a  young  composer,  almost  unknown  at  that 
time,  but  a  man  of  talent  and  spirit,  a  grandson  of  him  who 
•composed  the  Danish  folk’s-song  of  “  King  Christian  stood  by 
the  tall,  tall  mast.”  My  young  composer  was  the  present 
Professor  J.  P.  E.  Hartmann. 

It  will  sound  strange  to  the  ears  of  many,  when  I  say  that  1 
at  that  time,  in  my  letter  to  the  theatrical  directors,  recom¬ 
mended  him  and  gave  my  word  for  his  being  a  man  of  talent, 
who  would  produce  something  good.  He  now  takes  rank 
among  the  first  of  living  Danish  composers. 

My  text  to  “  The  Raven  ”  is  without  freshness  and  melody, 
and  I  have  not  inserted  it  in  my  collected  writings  ;  only  a 
chorus  and  a  song  are  introduced  among  the  poems. 

I  worked  up  also  Walter  Scott’s  “  Bride  of  Lammermoor  ” 
for  another  young  composer,  Bredal.  Both  operas  appeared 
on  the  stage  ;  but  I  was  subjected  to  the  most  merciless  crit¬ 
icism,  as  one  who  had  stultified  the  labors  of  foreign  poets. 
I  have  a  reminiscence  of  Oehlenschlager  at  that  time  which 
not  only  displays  his  irritability,  but  also,  in  a  high  degree,  his 
thoroughly  noble  nature. 

The  “  Bride  of  Lammermoor  ”  had  appeared  on  the  stage 
and  was  received  with  acclamation.  I  took  the  printed  text 
to  Oehlenschlager,  who  smiled  and  congratulated  me  on  the 
great  applause  I  had  received,  but  said  that  it  was  easy  for  me 
to  obtain  it,  as  I  had  taken  from  Walter  Scott,  and  had  been 
assisted  by  the  composer.  It  grieved  me  much  to  hear  him 
say  so,  and  tears  came  into  my  eyes  ;  when  he  saw  that  he 
embraced  and  kissed  me,  and  said  :  “  Other  people  are  making 
me  cross  too  !  ”  and  now  he  was  heartiness  itself,  presented  me 
with  one  of  his  books,  and  wrote  his  and  my  name  in  it. 

The  composer  Weyse,  my  earliest  benefactor,  whom  I  have 
already  mentioned,  was,  on  the  contrary,  satisfied  in  the  highest 
degree  with  my  treatment  of  these  subjects.  He  told  me  that 
he  had  wished  for  a  long  time  to  compose  an  opera  from 
Walter  Scott’s  “  Kenilworth.”  He  now  requested  me  to 
commence  the  joint  work,  and  writ?  the  text.  I  had  no  idea 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


7* 

of  the  summary  justice  which  would  be  dealt  to  me.  I  needed 
money  to  live,  and,  what  still  more  determined  me  to  it,  I  felt 
flattered  to  have  to  work  with  Weyse,  our  most  celebrated 
composer.  It  delighted  me  that  he,  who  had  first  spoken  in 
my  favor  at  Siboni’s  house,  now,  as  artist,  sought  a  noble 
connection  with  me.  I  had  scarcely  half  finished  the  text, 
when  I  was  already  blamed  for  having  made  use  of  a  well- 
known  romance.  I  wished  to  give  it  up  ;  but  Weyse  consoled 
me,  and  encouraged  me  to  proceed.  Afterward,  before  he 
had  finished  the  music,  when  I  was  about  to  travel  abroad,  I 
committed  my  fate,  as  regarded  the  text,  entirely  to  his  hands. 
He  wrote  whole  verses  of  it,  and  the  altered  conclusion  is 
wholly  his  own.  It  was  a  peculiarity  of  that  singular  man 
that  he  liked  no  book  which  ended  sorrowfully.  Amy  Robsart, 
in  “  Kenilworth,”  must  marry  Leicester.  “  Why  make  them 
unhappy,  when  one  with  only  a  few  pen-strokes  can  make 
them  happy  !  ”  said  he.  “  But  it  is  not  historical,”  replied  I. 
“  What  shall  we  then  do  with  Queen  Elizabeth  ?  ”  —  “  She  may 
say  :  ‘  Proud  England,  I  am  thine  !  ’  ”  answered  he.  I  yielded, 
and  let  him  finish  the  opera  with  these  words. 

“  Kenilworth  ”  was  brought  on  the  stage,  but  was  not  printed, 
with  the  exception  of  the  songs  ;  two  of  which  have  become 
very  well  known  through  the  music.  To  this  followed  anony¬ 
mous  attacks  :  the  city  post  brought  me  letters  in  which  the 
unknown  writers  scoffed  at  and  derided  me.  That  same  year 
I  published  a  new  collection  of  poetry,  “  The  Twelve  Months 
of  the  Year;”  and  this  book,  though  it  was  afterward  pro¬ 
nounced  to  contain  the  greater  part  of  my  best  lyrical  poems, 
was  then  condemned  as  bad. 

At  that  time  “  The  Monthly  Review  of  Literature,”  though 
k  has  now  gone  to  its  grave,  was  in  its  full  bloom.  At  its  first 
appearance,  it  numbered  among  its  co-workers  some  of  the 
most  distinguished  names.  Its  want,  however,  was  men  who 
were  qualified  to  speak  ably  on  aesthetic  works.  Unfortunately, 
everyboc  /  fancies  himself  able  to  give  an  opinion  upon  these  ; 
but  people  may  write  excellently  on  surgery  or  pedagogical 
science,  and  may  have  a  name  in  those  things,  and  yet  be 
dolts  in  poetry :  of  this  proofs  may  be  seen.  By  degrees  i‘ 
became  more  arid  more  difficult  for  the  critical  bench  to  find 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


77 

a  judge  for  poetical  works.  The  one,  however,  who,  through 
his  extraordinary  zeal  for  writing  and  speaking,  was  ready  at 
hand,  was  the  historian  and  states-councilor  Molbech,  who 
played,  in  our  time,  so  great  a  part  in  the  history  of  Danish 
criticism  that  T  must  speak  of  him  rather  more  fully.  He  is 
an  industrious  collector,  writes  extremely  correct  Danish,  and 
his  Danish  dictionary,  let  him  be  reproached  with  whatever 
want  he  may,  is  a  most  highly  useful  work  ;  but,  as  a  judge  of 
aesthetic  works,  he  is  one-sided,  and  even  fanatically  devoted 
to  party  spirit.  He  belongs,  unfortunately,  to  the  men  of 
science,  who  are  only  one  sixty-fourth  of  a  poet,  and  who  are 
the  most  incompetent  judges  of  aesthetics.  He  has,  for  ex¬ 
ample,  by  his  critiques  on  Ingemann’s  romances,  shown  how 
far  he  is  below  the  poetry  which  he  censures.  He  has  him¬ 
self  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  belong  to  the  common 
run  of  books,  —  “A  Ramble  through  Denmark,”  written  in  the 
fade,  flowery  style  of  those  times,  and  “  A  Journey  through 
Germany,  France,  and  Italy,”  which  seems  to  be  made  up  out 
of  books,  not  out  of  life.  He  sat  in  his  study,  or  in  the  Royal 
Library,  where  he  has  a  post,  when  suddenly  he  became 
director  of  the  theatre  and  censor  of  the  pieces  sent  in.  He 
was  sickly,  one-sided  in  judgment,  and  irritable  :  people  may 
imagine  the  result.  He  spoke  of  my  first  poems  very  favor¬ 
ably  ;  but  mv  star  soon  sank  for  another,  w'ho  was  in  the  as- 
Cendant,  —  a  young  lyrical  poet,  Paludan  Muller  ;  and,  as  he  no 
longer  loved,  he  hated  me.  That  is  the  short  history  ;  indeed 
in  the  selfsame  “  Monthly  Review  ”  the  very  poems  which  had 
formerly  been  praised  were  now  condemned  by  the  same  judge, 
when  they  appeared  in  a  new  enlarged  edition.  There  is  a 
Danish  proverb,  “  When  the  carriage  drags,  everybody  pushes 
behind;”  and  I  proved  the  truth  of  it  now.  People  spoke 
nly  of  my  faults,  and  it  certainly  is  human  nature  under  such 
circumstances  to  feel  badly.  I  showed  this  to  my  would-be 
friends,  and  from  them  it  was  told  about  the  great  city,  which 
often  ought  rather  to  be  called  the  little  city.  Even  well- 
dressed  people,  passing  me  in  the  streets,  made  wry  faces  at 
me  and  threw  out  scoffing  remarks. 

The  Danes  are  great  mockers,  or,  to  use  a  more  polite  ex¬ 
pression,  they  have  a  great  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  that  is 
the  reason  there  are  so  many  comedy  poets  among  them. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


78 

It  happened  that  a  new  star  in  Danish  literature  ascended 
at  this  time.  Henrik  Hertz  published  his  “  Letters  from 
the  Dead  ”  anonymously :  it  was  a  mode  of  driving  all  the  un¬ 
clean  things  out  of  the  temple.  The  deceased  Baggesen  sent 
polemical  letters  from  Paradise,  which  resembled  in  the  high¬ 
est  degree  the  style  of  that  author.  They  contained  a  sort 
of  apotheosis  of  Heiberg,  and  in  part  attacks  upon  Oehlen- 
schlager  and  Hauch.  The  old  story  about  my  orthographical 
errors  was  again  revived  ;  my  name  and  my  school-days  in 
Slagelse  were  brought  into  connection  with  St.  Anders.  I  was 
ridiculed,  or,  if  people  will,  I  was  chastised. 

Hertz’s  book  went  through  all  Denmark  ;  people  spoke  of 
nothing  but  him.  It  made  it  still  more  piquant  that  the  au¬ 
thor  of  the  work  could  not  be  discovered,  People  were  en¬ 
raptured,  and  justly.  Heiberg,  in  his  “  Flying  Post,  ”  de¬ 
fended  a  few  aesthetical  insignificants,  but  not  me. 

To  be  scoffingly  exposed  in  a  public  journal  had  then  quite 
another  side  to  it  than  now,  when  so  many  share  the  same  fate. 
The  predecessor  of  “  The  Corsair,”  “  The  Rocket,”  published 
by  Mathias  Winther,  was  then  truly  a  kind  of  pillory,  which 
gave  a  kind  of  importance  to  that  side  of  the  victim  that  was 
opposite  the  public,  who  then  believed  everything  that  got 
into  print.  There  was  only  one,  the  student  Drejer,  under 
the  ficticious  name  “  Davieno,”  who  supported  me.  He  was 
a  brother  of  the  botanist,  both  now  deceased,  a  very  gifted 
man  whose  poems  and  biography  are  published,  but  not  his 
more  considerable  poem,  “  A  Versified  Letter  to  Count  Zea- 
landsfar,”  which  he  wrote  in  my  defense. 

I  could  not  say  anything  :  I  could  only  let  the  big  heavy  sea 
roll  over  me,  and  it  was  the  common  opinion  that  I  was  to  be 
totally  washed  away.  I  felt  deeply  the  wound  of  the  sharp 
knife,  and  was  upon  the  point  of  giving  myself  up,  as  I  now 
already  was  given  up  by  all  others.  There  existed  no  other 
Allah  than  the  author  of  “  The  Letters  from  the  Dead,”  and 
Heiberg  was  his  Prophet.  I  however,  in  a  short  time,  pub¬ 
lished  a  little  book,  “  Vignettes  to  the  Poets,”  in  which  I  char¬ 
acterized  the  dead  and  the  living  authors  in  a  few  lines  each, 
but  only  spoke  of  that  which  was  good  in  them.  A  little  verse 
to  me  was  printed  in  “  The  Day.”  It  was  signed  “  Count  of  Fu- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


79 

nen.”  People  jibed  at  the  new  admirer  and  poet  I  had  found, 
but  they  would  not  have  done  so  if  they  had  known  that  the 
author  was  the  honorable  old  gentleman  Mr.  Wegener,  director 
of  the  seminary  for  teachers  at  Jonstrup  and  publisher  of  the 
“  House  Friend.”  He  was  widely  esteemed  and  honored. 
1  he  book  excited  attention  ;  it  was  regarded  as  one  of  the 
best  of  my  works  ;  it  was  imitated,  but  the  critics  did  not 
meddle  with  it.  It  was  evident,  on  this  occasion,  as  had  al¬ 
ready  been  the  case,  that  the  critics  never  laid  hands  on  those 
of  my  works  which  were  the  most  successful. 

My  affairs  were  now  in  their  worst  condition  ;  and  precisely 
in  that  same  year  in  which  a  stipend  for  travelling  had  been 
conferred  upon  Hertz,  I  also  had  presented  a  petition  for  the 
same  purpose.  I  looked  up  to  King  Frederic  VI.  with  true 
reverence  and  heartfelt  gratitude.  I  had  grown  up  with  these 
feelings,  and  I  felt  a  strong  desire  to  give  them  expression.  1 
could  not  do  it  in  any  other  way  than  by  presenting  him  a 
book,  which  he  had  allowed  me  to  dedicate  to  him,  “The 
Twelve  Months  of  the  Year.” 

A  man,  who  meant  well  by  me  and  was  acquainted  with  what 
needed  to  be  done,  told  me  that  I  ought,  in  order  to  take  proper 
measures  to  receive  a  stipend  for  travelling,  to  tell  the  King 
when  I  presented  him  my  book,  shortly  and  clearly  who  I 
was  ;  that  since  becoming  a  student  I  had  made  my  way  with¬ 
out  any  support ;  and  that  travel  would,  more  than  anything 
else,  serve  to  complete  my  education ;  then  the  King 
would  probably  answer,  that  I  could  bring  him  a  petition* 
which  I  was  to  have  by  me  and  thereupon  hand  to  him.  I 
thought  it  monstrous  that  at  the  same  moment  when  I 
presented  him  my  book  I  should  ask  him  a  favor  !  “  That 

is  the  way,”  said  he  ;  “  the  King  is  very  well  aware  that  you 
give  him  the  book  in  order  to  ask  for  something  !  ”  This 
made  me  almost  desperate,  but  he  said,  “That  is  the  only 
way  to  d:>  it,”  and  I  did  it.  My  audience  must  have  been 
very  comical  indeed  ;  my  hear:  was  beating  with  fear,  and 
when  the  King,  in  his  peculiar  manner,  stepped  abruptly  to¬ 
ward  me  and  asked  what  book  I  brought  him,  I  answered,  — 
“  A  cycle  of  poems  !  ’ 

“  A  cycle,  cycle  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  ”  Then  I  became 
*uite  disconcerted  and  said,  — 


Bo 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


“  It  is  some  verses  to  Denmark  ! He  smiled  :  — 

“  Well,  well,  it  is  very  good,  thank  you  !  ”  and  so  he  nodded 
and  dismissed  me.  But  as  I  had  not  yet  begun  on  my  real 
errand,  I  told  him  that  I  had  still  something  more  to  say  to 
him  ;  and  now,  without  hesitation,  I  told  him  about  my  studies 
and  'how  I  hod  gone  through  them.  “  That  is  very  praise¬ 
worthy,”  said  the  King  ;  and  when  I  reached  the  point  of  a 
stipend  for  travelling,  he  answered,  as  I  had  been  told  he 
would:  “Well,  send  me  your  petition  !  ” 

“Yes,  sire!  exclaimed  I  in  all  simplicity.  “I  have  it 
with  me !  but  it  seems  to  me  so  dreadful,  that  I  should 
bring  it  along  with  the  book ;  they  have  told  me  that  I 
ought  to  do  so,  that  it  was  the  right  way,  but  I  find  it  so 
dreadful  :  it  is  not  like  me  !  ”  —  and  tears  rushed  from  mv 
eyes.  The  good  King  laughed  heartily,  nodded  in  a  friendly 
fashion,  and  took  the  petition.  I  made  a  bow  and  ran  away  at 
full  speed. 

The  universal  opinion  was  that  I  had  reached  the  point 
of  culmination,  and  if  I  was  to  succeed  in  travelling,  it 
must  be  at  this  present  time.  I  felt,  what  since  then  has 
become  an  acknowledged  fact,  that  travelling  would  be  the 
best  school  for  me.  In  the  mean  time  I  was  told  that,  to 
bring  it  under  consideration,  I  muit  endeavor  to  obtain  from 
the  most  distinguished  poets  and  men  of  science  a  kind  of  rec¬ 
ommendation,  because  this  very  year  there  were  so  many  dis¬ 
tinguished  young  men  who  were  soliciting  a  stipend,  that  it 
would  be  difficult  among  these  to  put  in  an  available  claim. 
I  therefore  obtained  recommendations  for  myself ;  and  I  am, 
so  far  as  I  know,  the  only  Danish  poet  who  was  obliged  to 
produce  recommendations  to  prove  that  he  was  a  poet.  And 
here  also  it  is  remarkable,  that  the  men  who  recommended 
me  have  each  one  made  prominent  some  very  different  quali 
fication  which  gave  me  a  claim  :  for  instance,  Oehlenschlager, 
!ny  lyrical  power,  and  the  earnestness  that  was  in  me  ;  Inge- 
tnann,  my  skill  in  depicting  popular  life  ;  Heiberg  declared 
that  since  the  days  of  Wessel,  no  Danish  poet  had  possessed 
so  much  humor  as  myself ;  Orsted  remarked,  every  one  —  they 
7/ho  were  against  me' as  well  as  those  who  were  for  me  —  agreed 
•>n  one  subject,  and  this  was  that  I  was  a  true  poet.  Thiele 


THF  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


81 


expressed  himself  warmly  and  enthusiastically  about  the 
power  which  he  had  seen  in  me,  combating  against  the  oppres¬ 
sion  and  the  misery  of  life.  I  received  a  stipend  for  travel¬ 
ling —  Hertz  a  larger  and  1  a  smaller  one:  and  that  also 
was  quite  in  the  order  of  things. 

‘•Now  be  happy,”  said  my  friends,  “make  yourself  aware 
of  your  unbounded  good  fortune  !  Enjoy  the  present  mo¬ 
ment,  as  it  will  probably  be  the  only  time  in 'which  you  will 
get  abroad.  You  shall  hear  what  people  say  about  you  while 
you  are  travelling,  and  how  we  shall  defend  you  ;  sometimes, 
however,  we  shall  not  be  able  to  do  that.” 

It  was  painful  to  me  to  hear  such  things  said  ;  I  felt  a  com¬ 
pulsion  of  soul  to  be  away,  that  I  might,  if  possible,  breathe 
freely  ;  but  sorrow  is  firmly  seated  on  the  horse  of  the  rider. 
More  than  one  sorrow  oppressed  my  heart,  and  although  I 
opened  the  chambers  of  my  heart  to  the  world,  one  or  two  of 
them  I  kept  locked,  nevertheless.  On  setting  out  on  my  jour¬ 
ney,  my  prayer  to  God  was  that  I  might  die  far  away  from 
Denmark,  or  else  return  strengthened  for  activity,  and  in  a 
condition  to  produce  works  which  should  win  for  me  and  my 
beloved  ones  joy  and  honor. 

Precisely  at  the  moment  of  setting  out  on  my  journey,  the 
forms  of  those  I  loved  arose  in  my  heart.  Among  the  few  whom 
I  have  already  named,  there  are  two  who  exercised  a  great  in¬ 
fluence  upon  my  life  and  my  poetry,  and  these  I  must  more 
particularly  mention.  A  beloved  mother  ;  an  unusually  lib¬ 
eral-minded  and  well  educated  lady,  Madame  Lassoe,  had  in¬ 
troduced  me  into  her  agreeable  circle  of  friends  ;  she  often 
felt  the  deepest  sympathy  with  me  in  my  troubles  ;  she  always 
turned  my  attention  to  the  beautiful  in  nature  and  the  poet, 
ical  in  the  details  of  life,  and  as  almost  every  one  regarded  me 
as  a  poet,  she  elevated  my  mind  ;  yes,  and  if  there  be  tender¬ 
ness  and  purity  in  anything  which  I  have  written,  they  are 
i&anong  those  things  for  which  I  have  especially  to  be  thankful 
to  her.  Another  character  of  great  importance  to  me  was 
Collin’s  son  Edward.  Brought  up  under  fortunate  circum¬ 
stances  of  life,  he  was  possessed  of  that  courage  and  determi¬ 
nation  which  I  wanted.  I  felt  that  he  sincerely  loved  me,  and 
I,  full  of  affection,  threw  myse.f  upon  him  with  my  who'e  soul 

6 


82 


THE  STGI\  V  OF  MY  LIFE. 


he  passed  on  calmly  and  practically  through  the  tusiness  of 
life.  1  often  mistook  him  at  the  very  moment  when  he  felt 
for  me  most  deeply,  and  when  he  would  gladly  have  infused 
into  me  a  portion  of  his  own  character,  —  to  me,  who  was  as  a 
reed  shaken  by  the  wind.  It  was  pleasure  and  happiness  to 
me  to  recite  either  my  own  or  others’  poems.  In  a  family  cir¬ 
cle,  where  I  was  present  with  my  young  friend,  I  was  asked  to 
recite,  and  I  was  ready  to  do  it,  but — knowing  better  than  I 
just  what  the  company  meant,  and  that  I  was  in  their  eyes 
nothing  more  than  an  object  of  ridicule  —  he  came  up  to  me, 
and  said  that  if  I  recited  a  single  piece  he  would  go  away ! 
I  was  dejected,  and  the  hostess  and  the  ladies  overwhelmed 
me  with  reproaches.  It  was  only  afterward  that  I  saw  things 
from  his  point  of  view  and  understood  how,  with  his  knowl¬ 
edge  of  the  moment,  he  was  my  honest  friend ;  then  it  caused 
me  tears,  although  I  had  the  fullest  confidence  that  he  felt 
deeply  for  my  interest.  In  the  practical  part  of  life,,  he,  the 
younger,  stood  actively  by  my  side,  from  the  assistance  which 
he  gave  in  my  Latin  exercises,  to  the  arranging  the  business 
of  bringing  out  editions  of  my  works.  He  has  always  re¬ 
mained  the  same  ;  and  were  I  to  enumerate  my  friends,  he 
would  be  placed  by  me  as  the  first  on  the  list.  When  the 
traveller  leaves  the  mountains  behind  him,  then  for  the  first 
time  he  sees  them  in  their  true  form  :  so  is  it  also  with  friends. 

A  little  album  of  verses  from  many  whose  names  were  illus¬ 
trious,  was  my  little  treasure  ;  it  accompanied  me  on  all  my 
travels,  and  has  since  increased  and  become  of  very  great 
value  to  me. 

I  left  Copenhagen  Monday,  2 2d  April,  1833.  I  saw  the 
steeples  of  the  city  dissolving  from  my  view  —  we  approached 
the  promontory  of  Moen  ;  then  the  Captain  bright  me  a  letter 
and  said  jokingly  :  “  It  came  just  now  down  through  the  air.” 
It  was  a  few  words  more,  an  affectionate  ff.ewell  from  Edward 
Collin.  Off  Falster  another  letter  from  another  friend.  At 
bed-time  a  third,  and  early  in  the  morning  near  Travemiinde 
a  fourth  —  all  “  through  the  air  !  ”  said  the  Captain.  My 
friends  had  kindly  and  sympathetically  filled  his  pockets  witk 
letters  for  me. 


<1 


CHAPTER  V. 

IN  Hamburg  lived  the  poet  Lars  Kruse,  author  of  the  trag 
edies,  —  “  Ezzelin,”  “The  Widow,”  “The  Monastery/' 
which  1  have  seen  performed  at  the  Royal  Theatre  ;  his  novel, 
“Seven  Years,”  was  much  read;  the  “  Musenalmanach  ”  of 
Germany  every  year  made  a  great  show  of  his  stories.  Now 
he  is  there  as  here  almost  entirely  forgotten.  He  was  an 
amiable,  well-meaning  man,  of  a  good-natured,  fleshy  appear¬ 
ance  ;  he  spoke  to  me  of  his  love  for  his  country,  and  wrote 
down  in  my  album  a  little  verse. 

That  was  the  first  poetical  greeting  I  received  in  a  foreign 
country,  and  therefore  it  was  fixed  in  my  memory.  The  next 
lively  impression  of  travel  was  formed  in  Cassel,  upon  seeing 
a  name  in  half-effaced  letters  on  a  street-corner,  —  the  name 
of  Napoleon,  for  whom  the  street  or  place  had  been  named. 
That  made  a  greater  impression  on  me  than  all  the  glory  of 
“  Wilhelmshohe,”  with  its  artificial  ruins  and  fountains.  Na¬ 
poleon  was  the  hero  of  my  youth  and  my  heart. 

In  Cassel  I  saw  for  the  first  time  Spohr,  and  was  received 
very  kindly  by  him.  He  asked  me  many  questions  concern¬ 
ing  music  in  Denmark  and  its  composers.  He  knew  some¬ 
thing  of  Weyse’s  and  Kuhlau’s  compositions. 

A  little  theme  of  “  The  Raven,”  which  Hartmann  had  writ¬ 
ten  down  in  my  album,  captivated  him  much,  and  I  know  that 
several  years  afterward  he  commenced  a  correspondence  with 
Hartmann,  and  made  an  attempt,  yet  without  success,  to  put 
“  The  Raven  ”  on  the  stage  at  Cassel.  He  spoke  of  his  own 
works,  and  asked  me  which  of  them  were  given  at  the  theatre 
of  Copenhagen,  and  I  was  obliged  to  answer  “  None  at  all/* 
and  must  still  say  so. 

His  opera,  “  Zemire  and  Azor,”  seemed  to  be  his  best,  and 
was  also  so  regarded  by  himself.  He  had  a  slight  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  Danish  literature,  and  knew  something  of  Baggesen, 
Oehlenschlager  and  Kruse. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


84 

Thorwaldsen  had  his  highest  admiration.  I  was  torched 
at  taking  leave  of  him,  for  I  thought  that  I  was  bidding  fare¬ 
well  forever  to  a  man,  who  by  his  works  will  be  admired 
through  generations.  I  did  not  think  that  we  should  meet 
each  other  again,  and  yet  it  happened  many  years  afterward 
at  London,  where  we  met  as  old  friends. 

Nowadays  we  travel  speedily  through  Germany  to  Paris, 
but  it  was  not  so  in  1833.  Then  there  were  no  railways,  and 
we  crept  slowly  forward,  stowed  away  night  and  day  in  heavy, 
clumsy  stage-coaches.  After  all  that  prose  of  travel,  it  was 
for  me  a  kind  of  poetry  to  reach  Frankfurt,  Goethe’s  native 
town  —  the  home  in  childhood,  too,  of  the  Rothschilds,  where 
the  rich  mother  of  powerful  men  would  not  leave  the  little 
house  in  the  Jew  Quarter,  where  she  had  borne  and  brought  up 
her  rich  and  happy  sons.  The  Gothic  old  gable-ended  houses, 
the  city  hall  of  the  Middle  Ages,  formed  a  page  of  pictures  for 
me. 

The  composer  Aloys  Schmitt,  known  by  his  opera  “  Valeria,” 
was  the  first  abroad  who  asked  me  to  write  him  an  opera  text. 
My  smaller  poems,  which  were  translated  by  Chamisso,  had 
shown  him,  as  he  expressed  it,  that  J  was  the  poet  he  wanted. 

I  saw  the  Rhine  !  Its  banks  appear  least  favorable  at  spring¬ 
time,  the  vines  looking  meanly,  as  they  rise  toward  the  castle 
ruins.  I  had  imagined  it  all  much  more  grand.  What  I  saw 
was  below  my  expectation,  and  I  think  that  I  am  not  alone  in 
that  opinion  ;  the  most  beautiful  point  is  undeniably  Loreley, 
near  St.  Goar.  The  banks  of  the  river  Danube  are  more  ro¬ 
mantic,  even  the  Rhone  has  points  which  surpass  those  of  the 
Rhine.  The  traditions  are  the  chief  attractions  of  the  Rhine. 
Tales  and  songs  —  those  charming  songs,  which  the  German 
poets  have  sung  to  the  honor  of  that  mighty  sea-green  stream 
—  are  its  highest  beauty. 

From  the  Rhine  we  continued  our  journey  for  three  nigk+s 
and  days  over  Saarbrtick,  through  the  chalk  district  of  Cham¬ 
pagne,  to  Paris.  I  looked  eagerly  toward  this  “  city  of  cities,” 
as  I  then  called  it,  and  asked  so  many  times  if  we  should  not 
soon  be  there  that  at  last  I  stopped  asking,  and  so  we  passed 
the  very  Boulevards  even  before  I  knew  that  we  had  reached 
that  mighty  city. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


*5 

All  my  travelling  impressions  on  my  way  from  Copenhagen 
to  Paris  are  presented  in  what  I  have  here  written,  and  but 
very  little  was  I  able  to  get  hold  of  on  this  rapid  passage. 
Still  there  were  people  at  home  who  already  expected  to  see 
something  from  me  ;  they  did  not  consider  that  if  even  the  cur¬ 
tain  is  raised  the  play  is  not  immediately  seen  or  clearly  con¬ 
ceived. 

I  was  now  in  Paris,  but  fatigued  and  sleepy.  I  descended 
at  the  Hotel  de  Lille,  Rue  Thomas,  near  the  Palais  Royal.  To 
go  to  bed  and  get  a  good  sleep  was  the  best  thing  for  me,  but 
I  had  not  slept  long  before  I  was  awakened  by  a  dreadful 
noise  ;  it  was  light  all  around.  I  started  to  the  window  ;  op¬ 
posite,  in  the  narrow  street,  was  a  large  building.  I  looked 
through  the  windows  :  a  crowd  of  people  rushed  down  the 
stairs,  crying  and  bellowing  ;  there  was  a  great  rush  and  rum¬ 
ble  and  flashing,  and  I,  being  still  half  asleep,  thought  of 
course  that  all  Paris  was  in  a  revolution.  I  rang  the  bell  and 
asked  the  waiter  what  the  matter  was.  “  C’est  le  tonnerre  !  ” 
said  he  ;  “  Le  tonnerre  !  ”  said  the  maid  ;  and  seeing  that  I  did 
not  understand  them,  they  rolled  with  the  tongue,  “  Tonnerre- 
re-rrre  !  ”  showing  me  how  the  thunderbolt  beats  down,  and 
meanwhile  it  lightened  and  rumbled.  It  was  the  thunder,  and 
the  house  opposite  was  the  Vaudeville  Theatre,  where  the 
play  was  just  finished  and  people  were  rushing  down-stairs  ; 
that  was  my  first  awakening  in  Paris. 

Now  I  was  to  see  its  grandeurs.  The  Italian  opera  was  al¬ 
ready  closed,  but  the  great  opera  was  ablaze  with  brilliant 
stars.  Madame  Damoreau  and  Adolph  Nourrit  were  singing. 
Nourrit  was  then  in  his  full  vigor,  and  was  the  favorite  of  the 
Parisians.  I  heard  him,  who  had  fought  so  bravely,  and  at 
the  barricades  had  with  his  whole  soul  sung  patriotic  songs, 
exciting  the  enthusiasm  of  the  fighters,  and  all  was  joy  and  ju¬ 
bilation.  Four  years  more  and  I  heard  of  his  despair  and 
death. 

He  went  to  Naples  in  1837.  His  reception  there  was  not 
what  he  expected  ;  even  a  hiss  was  heard,  and  that  agitated 
much  the  singer  who  always  had  been  admired.  Once  more, 
though  sick  at  heart,  he  appeared  in  “  Norma ;  ”  one  hiss  was 
again  heard,  in  spite  o’  the  stormy  applause  of  all  the  rest. 

t 


86 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIRE. 


Nourrit  was  deeply  wounded  ;  he  was  up  the  whole  night,  and 
in  the  morning,  the  8th  of  March,  he  precipitated  himself  from 
a  window  in  the  third  story.  His  widow  and  six  children 
were  left  to  mourn  him. 

It  was  in  his  splendor  and  happiness,  when  living  in  a  jubi¬ 
lee  of  admiration,  that  I  heard  him  in  Paris  as  Gustavus  tht 
Third.  This  opera  was  admired  by  all.  The  widow  of  the 
real  Ankarstrom  lived  here  and  was  an  old  woman  ;  she  pub¬ 
lished  a  card  in  one  of  the  best  known  journals,  saying  that 
the  relations  which  Scribe  had  placed  King  Gustavus  in,  to  her, 
were  totally  false,  and  that  she  had  only  seen  the  King  once. 

I  saw  the  tragedy  “  Les  Enfants  d’Edouard,”  in  the  Theatre 
Fran^ais  ;  old  Mademoiselle  Mars  played  the  part  of  the 
young  sons’  mother,  and  though  I  understood  the  French  lan¬ 
guage  very  little,  her  acting  made  everything  comprehensible 
to  me  ;  a  more  beautiful  voice  in  a  woman  I  never  have 
heard  before  nor  since.  When  I  was  first  living  in  Copen 
hagen  the  renowned  Miss  Astrup  appeared  on  the  Danish 
stage,  and  was  admired  by  the  Copenhagen  public  for  her  un¬ 
dying  youthfulness  !  I  saw  her  as  she  appeared  with  feelings 
of  piety  in  the  tragedy  “  Selim,  Prince  •of  Algeria,”  where 
she  acted  the  mother  ;  but  for  me  she  was  an  old,  lac£d  maid, 
stiff  as  a  pin,  with  an  unpleasant  gaggling  voice  ;  of  her  acting 
I  could  not  judge.  In  Mademoiselle  Mars  in  Paris  I  saw  the 
true  youthfulness,  which  did  not  consist  in  stays  and  struttings  ; 
in  her  were  youthful  movements,  a  musical  voice,  and  I  could 
understand  without  being  told  that  she  was  a  true  artist ! 

There  were  several  of  us  Danes  together  that  summer 
in  Paris  ;  we  all  lived  in  the  same  hotel,  and  went  in  com¬ 
pany  together  to  restaurants,  cafes,  and  theatres.  Our  own 
home-tongue  was  always  spoken,  letters  were  read  by  each 
other,  views  of  home  received  and  talked  over,  and  at  last  we 
hardly  knew  whether  we  were  in  a  foreign  land  or  our  own. 

Everything  was  seen  and  had  to  be.  seen,  for  it  was  on  this 
account  we  had  come  abroad.  I  remember  that  one  of  our 
dear  friends  one  morning  returning  from  museums  and  palaces 
almost  exhausted,  said  :  “  I  cannot  help  it,  they  must  be  seen  ; 
for  when  I  go  home  again  I  shall  be  ashamed  to  be  asked 
mnd  have  to  confess  that  I  had  not  seen  this  or  that ;  there 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


87 

only  remain  a  few  places,  and  when  they  are  done,  I  shall  have 
a  real  good  time  !  ”  This  was  the  common  talk,  and  will  prob¬ 
ably  very  often  be  repeated.  I  went  out  in  company  with 
the  others  and  saw  and  saw,  but  most  of  it  has  long  since 
been  effaced  from  my  memory. 

The  magnificent  Versailles  with  its  rich  saloons  and  large 
paintings  gave  place  in  my  mind  to  the  Trianon.  I  entered 
Napoleon’s  bed-room  with  pious  feelings  ;  all  was  there  in  the 
same  state  as  when  he  lived  :  the  walls  had  yellow  tapestry 
and  the  bed  yellow  curtains  ;  a  pair  of  stairs  led  up  to  the 
bed  ;  I  put  my  hand  on  one  of  the  steps  which  had  t  een 
touched  by  his  foot,  and  on  his  pillow.  If  I  had  been  alone  I 
should  surely  have  knelt  down.  Napoleon  was  indeed  the 
hero  of  my  youth  and  also  of  my  father.  I  looked  up  to 
him  as  the  Catholic  to  his  saint.  I  visited  the  little  farm  in 
the  garden  of  Trianon,  where  Marie  Antoinette,  dressed  as 
a  peasant-girl,  managed  the  dairy  and  all  pertaining  to  it.  I 
plucked  a  honeysuckle  which  climbed  up  to  the  window  of 
the  unfortunate  Queen’s  room  ;  a  little  daisy,  in  all  its  sim¬ 
plicity,  was  in  contrast  preserved  in  memory  of  the  mighty 
Versailles. 

I  saw,  or  rather  I  spoke,  with  few  celebrities  in  Paris  ;  one 
of  those,  to  whom  I  was  introduced  by  a  letter  from  the 
Danish  ballet-master,  Bournonville,  was  the  vaudeville-poet, 
Paul  Duport.  His  drama,  “  The  Quaker  and  the  Dancer,” 
has  been  performed  at  our  theatre,  and  was  very  well  executed. 
The  old  man  was  much  pleased  to  hear  this  information,  and 
ieceived  me  very  kindly.  A  very  comical  scene,  however, 
soon  took  place  between  us.  I  spoke  French  but  poorly  ;  he 
thought  that  he  could  speak  German,  but  he  pronounced  it 
S-  that  I  could  not  understand  him  at  all.  He  took  a  German 
dictionary,  placed  it  on  his  lap  and  looked  continually  for 
words,  but  to  speak  by  help  of  a  dictionary  is  a  very  slow 
practice  and  suited  neither  a  Frenchman  nor  me. 

Another  visit  was  to  Cherubini,  to  wdiom  I  was,  to  speak 
properly,  sent  on  an  eirand  from  Weyse.  Many  will  still  re¬ 
member  how  poor  an  appreciation  the  ingenious  Weyse  got 
at  home  for  his  opera  compositions,  and  yet  among  these 
were  the  melod'ous  works,  “The  Narcotic  Potion”  and  “The 


88 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Grotto  of  Ludlam.”  He  lived  and  composed  exclusively  for 
us,  but  could  never  get ‘into  fashion.  Only  as  composer  of 
church  music  did  he  make  his  mark,  and  his  “Ambrosian 
Hymn  of  Praise  ”  was  especially  admired.  It  was  that  hymn 
I  was  charged  by  him  to  carry  to  Cherubini,  the  immortal  com¬ 
poser  of  “The  Two  Days,”  and  the  master  of  so  many  excel¬ 
lent  requiems.  At  this  very  time  the  attention  of  the  Parisian 
public  was  attracted  to  him.  He  had  then,  after  a  long  rest 
and  ir  his  old  age,  composed  a  new  work  for  the  great  opera, 
“  Ali  Baba,  or  the  Forty  Thieves.”  It  had  no  success,  but  was 
received  with  affectionate  homage. 

I  went  to  Cherubini  ;  the  old  man  looked  like  the  pictures 
I  had  seen  of  him  ;  he  sat  before  his  piano  and  had  a  cat 
upon  each  shoulder.  He  had  never  heard  of  Wevse,  not  even 
of  his  name,  and  asked  me  of  the  music  I  brought  him.  The 
only  Danish  composer  he  knew  was  Claus  Schall,  who  has 
composed  the  music  for  the  ballets  of  Galeotti.  Weyse  never 
heard  from  Cherubini,  and  I  never  saw  him  again. 

One  day  I  entered  “  Europe  Litteraire,”  a  kind  of  Parisian 
“  Athenaeum,”  where  Paul  Duport  had  introduced  me.  A  lit¬ 
tle  man  of  Jewish  cast  came  toward  me.  “  I  hear  you  are 
a  Dane,”  said  he  ;  “  I  am  a  German  :  Danes  and  Germans  are 
brothers,  therefore  I  offer  you  my  hand  !  ” 

I  asked  for  his  name,  and  he  said :  “  Heinrich  Heine !  ” 
the  poet  whom,  in  my  recent  young  erotic  period  of  life,  I  had 
admired  so  much,  and  who  had  so  entirely  expressed  my 
thoughts  and  feelings  in  his  songs.  There  was  no  man  I 
■ymld  have  wished  more  to  see  and  meet  with  than  he,  and  so 
I  told  him. 

“  Only  phrases  !  ”  said  he  smiling  ;  “  if  I  had  interested  you 
is  much  as  yoi  tell  me,  you  should  have  sought  me  out  be- 
foie !  ” 

“  I  could  not,”  replied  I  ;  “  you  have  so  much  sense  of  the 
iudicrous,  that  you  might  have  thought  it  absurd  in  me,  who 
am  a  Danish  poet  entirely  unknown  to  you,  to  seek  you.  I 
know  also  that  I  should  have  behaved  very  awkwardly  toward 
you,  and  if  you  had  then  laughed  at  me,  or  perhaps  quizzed 
me,  I  should  have  been  deeply  wounded,  for  the  very  reason 
that  I  estimate  you  so  highly ;  so  I  should  rather  have  missed 
seeing  you  at  all.” 

O  J 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


89 

My  words  made  a  good  impression  on  him,  and  he  was  very 
kind  and  amiable.  The  next  day  he  returned  my  visit  in 
Hotel  Vivienne,  where  I  lived  We  met  each  other  often, 
p.nd  sometimes  we  promenaded  together  on  the  Boulevard, 
but  I  did  not  thei}  place  full  confidence  in  him,  and  I  did 
not  feel  that  hearty  attraction  which  several  years  afterward 
I  felt  when  we  met  again  in  Paris,  and  he  had  read  my  “  Im 
provisatore  ”  and  some  of  my  small  stories.  On  my  departure 
from  Paris  to  Italy  he  wrote  to  me:  — 

“  I  should  have  wished,  my  dear  colleague,  to  scribble  some 
verses  to  you,  but  to-day  I  can  hardly  write  tolerably  in  prose 
Farewell  !  I  wish  you  a  pleasant  sojourn  in  Italy.  Learn  Ger¬ 
man  well  in  Germany,  and  when  you  return  to  Denmark  write 
down  in  German  what  you  have  seen  and  felt  in  Italy.  That 
would  make  me  very  happy. 

“  H.  Heine. 

“Paris,  August  10,  1833.” 


The  first  French  book  I  tried  to  read  in  Paris  was  Victor 
Hugo’s  novel,  “  Notre  Dame.”  I  used  daily  to  visit  the 
cathedral  and  look  upon  the  scenes  depicted  in  that  poet¬ 
ical  work.  I  was  captivated  by  those  stirring  pictures  and 
dramatic  characters,  and  what  could  I  do  better  than  go 
and  see  the  poet,  who  lived  in  a  corner-house  in  the  Place 
Royale.  They  were  old-fashioned  rooms,  hung  with  engrav¬ 
ings,  wood  cuts,  and  paintings  of  Notre  Dame.  He  received 
me  in  his  bed-gown,  drawers,  and  elegant  morning  boots 
Taking  leave  of  him,  I  asked  him  for  his  ,.ame  on  a  piece  of 
paper ;  he  complied  with  my  wishes,  and  wrote  his  name  close 
up  to  the  edge  of  the  paper.  I  felt  very  badly,  for  .t  came  Im¬ 
mediately  to  my  mind  that  he  did  this  because  he  did  not 
know  me,  and  was  cautious  that  no  place  should  be  left  for 
me  to  write  above  his  name.  At  a  later  stay  in  Paris  I  came 
to  know  the  poet  better. 

During  my  journey  to  Paris,  and  the  whole  of  the  first 
month  I  spent  there,  I  heard  not  a  single  word  from  home. 

asked  for  letters  at  the  post-office,  but  in  vain.  Could  my 
friends,  perhaps,  have  nothing  agreeable  to  "ell  me  ?  Could 


90 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


it  be  that  I  still  was  envied  the  travelling  stipend  which  the 
recommendations  of  so  many  had  procured  me?  I  was  much 
depressed.  At  length,  however,  a  letter  arrived,  —  a  large  un 
paid  one,  which  cost  a  large  sum  in  postage,  but  then  it  was 
such  a  splendid  great  one.  My  heart  beat  with  joy  and  yearn¬ 
ing  impatience  to  read  it ;  it  was,  indeed,  my  first  letter  from 
home.  I  opened  it,  but  I  discovered  not  a  single  written 
word,  nothing  but  a  printed  newspaper,  —  “  The  Copenhagen 
Post,”  of  Monday,  May  13,  1833,  containing  a  lampoon  upon 
me ;  and  that  was  sent  to  me  all  that  distance  with  postage 
unpaid,  probably  by  the  anonymous  writer  himself. 

That  was  to  be  my  first  greeting  from  home.  This  abom¬ 
inable  malice  wounded  me  deeply.  I  have  never  discovered 
who  the  author  was  ;  the  verses  betrayed  a  practiced  pen  ; 
perhaps  he  was  one  of  those  who  afterwards  called  me 
“  friend  ”  and  pressed  my  hand.  Men  have  base  thoughts  ; 
I  also  have  mine.  * 

I  remained  in  Paris  till  the  July  festivals  were  over  ;  they 
were  then  in  their  first  freshness,  and  I  saw  on  one  of  the  days 
the  unveiling  of  Napoleon’s  pillar  at  the  Place  Vendome. 

The  evening  before,  while  the  workmen  were  at  work,  the 
statue  still  covered,  and  people  gathered  in  crowds  on  the 
place,  a  strange-looking,  lean  old  woman  came  toward  me,  and 
with  laughter  and  an  expression  of  insanity  said  to  me,  “  There 
they  have  placed  him  ;  to-morrow,  perhaps,  they  take  him  down 
again.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  I  know  the  French  people  !  ”  I  went 
away  with  sad  thoughts. 

The  following  day  I  had  a  seat  upon  a  high  scaffold  at  the 
corner  of  the  place.  I  gazed  on  Louis  Philippe,  with  his  sons 
md  generals.  The  “  garde  nationale  ”  passed  with  music  and 
with  bouquets  of  flowers  stuck  in  the  gun-barrels  ,  peopie 
houted  Hurra !  but  also  “  A  bas  les  forts  ”  was  heard. 

In  the  Hotel  de  Ville  was  a  people’s  ball  in  splendid  style  ; 
all  classes  came  together,  from  the  royal  family  to  the  fish- 
women.  The  crowd  was  so  dense  that  Louis  Philippe  and  his 
queen  reached  the  seats  arranged  for  them  with  considera¬ 
ble  difficulty.  It  made  a  sad  impression  on  me  to  hear  the 
orchestra  play  the  dance-music  of  the  opera  “  Gustavus  the 
Third,”  when  the  royal  family  entered.  I  looked  to  see  in  the 


THE  STORY  OE  MY  LIFE. 


91 

fact  of  Queen  Amelie  an  impression  similar  to  what  I  felt: 
she  was  deadly  pale  and  clung  tightly  to  Louis  Philippe,  who 
with  a  jovial  smile  saluted  all  and  shook  hands  with  several 
persons. 

I  saw  the  Due  d’Orleans,  young  and  full  of  vigor,  dancing 
with  a  poorly  dressed  young  girl,  — probably  one  of  the  lowest 
classes. 

This  feast  and  gayety  continued  through  several  days  ;  in 
the  evenings  funereal  flambeaux  burned  upon  the  graves  of  the 
fallen  citizens,  which  were  adorned  with  wreaths  of  everlast¬ 
ings  ;  tournaments  in  boats  were  held  in  the  Seine  ;  Danish 
sports  in  fine  style  were  seen  in  Champs  d’Elysees.  All  the 
theatres  in  Paris  were  open  to  the  public,  even  in  the  middle 
of  the  day,  and  representations  were  given  with  open  doors  ; 
everybody  could  come  and  go  as  they  liked.  Sometimes  the 
people  interrupted  the  performance  of  tragedies  and  operas, 
and  began  to  sing  “  La  Parisienne  ”  and  “  Allons  Enfants.” 
In  the  evenings  rockets  and  fire-works  flashed  and  cracked  in 
the  air,  and  there  were  brilliant  illuminations  of  churches  and 
public  buildings. 

Thus  ended  mv  first  visit  to  Paris,  and  the  finale  could  not 

_  m 

have  been  more  grand  and  festive. 

As  to  my  French,  I  had  not  improved  much  in  the  nearly 
three  months  I  spent  here.  It  is  a  weakness  of  the  Danes 
that  they  here  live  together,  —  exclusively  together,  and  I  had 
given  way  to  the  same  weakness.  I  felt  a  necessity  to  learn 
a  little  more  of  that  language,  and  therefore  determined  to 
board  for  a  while  in  some  quiet  place  in  Switzerland  so  as 
to  be  compelled  to  speak  French  ;  but  I  was  told  that  such 
a  stay  would  be  very  expensive  for  me. 

“  If  you  would  condescend  to  visit  a  little  city  up  in  the  Jura 
M  jmntains,  where  it  snows  even  in  August,  you  would  there 
find  a  cheap  place  and  many  friends  too,”  said  a  Swiss  to  me, 
with  whom  I  had  made  acquaintance  through  his  family  in 
Copenhagen.  After  Paris  and  all  its  pleasures,  a  stay  in  those 
solitary  mountains  would  be  very  refreshing  to  me.  I  wished 
there  in  quiet  to  finish  a  poem,  which  now  occupied  my 
thoughts.  The  plan  for  the  journey  was  laid,  and  the  route 
fixed  by  Geneva  and  Lausanne  to  the  little  city  of  Le  Lode. 
Ui  the  Jura  Mountains. 


TITE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


Among  my  compatriots  in  Paris  were  two  who  belonged  to 
Denmark’s  renowned  men,  both  of  whom  had  received  me 
very  kindly.  One  of  them  was  the  author  of  the  “  Vons  and 
Vans,”  and  the  “  Laterna  Magica,"  the  poet  Peter  Andreas 
Heiberg,  who  at  a  period,  so  different  from  ours,  was  exiled 
from  Denmark,  and  had  chosen  Paris  for  his  new  home  ; 
his  life  is  well  known  to  all  Danes.  I  sought  him  out;  he 
lived  in  one  of  the  smaller  hotels,  and  was  an  aged  and  almost 
blind  man. 

His  son,  John  Ludvig  Heiberg,  our  present  director  of  the 
theatre,  had  then  recently  married  Johanne  Louise,  Denmark’s, 
and,  I  am  bold  to  say,  one  of  the  world’s  most  honored  and 
estimated  actresses  of  the  age.  It  greatly  interested  the  old 
Heiberg  to  hear  of  her,  but  I  understood  that  he  still  held  to 
his  old  fashioned,  or  perhaps  Parisian  opinions,  regarding 
scenic  artists. 

He  did  not  like  it  that  his  son’s  wife  should  be  governed  by 
the  theatre  director,  whom  he  considered  to  be  a  kind  of  a 
tyrant ;  meanwhile  he  was  glad  to  hear  from  me,  and,  as  he 
said,  from  all  the  Danes,  that  she  was  such  a  respectable  girl, 
endowed  with  real  talent.  It  is  a  pity  that  he  never  himself 
learned  to  know  her  talent,  her  important  place  on  the  Danish 
stage,  and  her  noble  character.  He  seemed  to  feel  very  deso¬ 
late,  and  it  was  pitiful  to  behold  the  half-blind  man  feeling 
his  way  along  through  the  well-known  arcades  of  the  Palais 
Royal.  At  my  departure  he  wrote  in  my  album  :  — 


tl  Receive  a  blind  man’s  friendly  farewell ! 


Paris  August  10  1833.” 


“  P.  A.  Heiberg. 


The  other  famous  Dane  who  favored  me  was  the  counselor 
d!  state  Brondsted,  with  whom  I  became  acquainted  at  the 
house  of  Admiral  Wulff ;  he  came  from  London,  where  he  had 
read  my  book,  “  The  Twelve  Months  of  the  Year.”  He  had 
not  before  read  anything  of  mine  ;  my  verses  pleased  him,  he 
became  interested  in  me,  and  was  my  intellectual  guide  and 
good  friend.  Some  days  before  I  left  Paris  he  sent  me,  one 
morning,  a  poem  he  had  written. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


93 

For  several  days  and  nights  I  now  travelled,  squeezed  in 
dusty  diligences.  The  small  adventures  of  a  travelling  life 
were  served  up  for  me,  and  I  have  kept  some  of  them  in 
remembrance  and  will  here  give  you  one. 

We  had  left  the  flat  plains  of  France  and  reached  the  Jura 
Mountains  ;  here  in  a  little  village,  late  in  the  evening,  the 
conductor  helped  two  young  farmer’s  daughters  to  get  into  the 
diligence,  where  I  was  the  only  passenger. 

“  If  we  do  not  let  them  drive  with  us  they  will  be  obliged 
to  walk  two  hours  on  a  desert  road,”  said  the  conductor ;  they 
whispered  and  tittered  together  ;  they  knew  that  a  gentleman 
was  in  the  coach,  but  could  not  see  me  :  at  last  they  took 
courage  and  asked  me  if  I  was  a  Frenchman,  and  learning 
that  I  was  from  Denmark,  they  made  me  believe  that  they 
knew  that  country.  They  recollected  from  the  geography  that 
Denmark  was  the  same  as  Norway.  Copenhagen  they  could 
not  pronounce,  but  always  said  “  Corporal,”  and  so  forth. 

They  asked  me  whether  I  was  young,  and  married,  and  how 
I  looked.  I  kept  quiet  in  a  dark  corner,  and  gave  them  as 
ideal  a  description  as  I  could  ;  they  understood  the  sport,  and 
when  in  turn  I  asked  them  of  their  appearance,  they  made 
themselves  out  to  me  real  beauties. 

They  urged  me  to  show  my  face  when  we  arrived  at  the 
next  station  ;  I  would  not  yield  to  their  wishes,  and  so  they 
covered  their  faces  with  their  handkerchiefs  and  alighted,  and, 
laughing  merrily,  held  out  their  hands  to  me  ;  they  were  young 
and  had  very  beautiful  figures.  Those  two  unknown,  invis¬ 
ible,  gay  girls  represented  a  laughing  image  of  my  travelling 
life. 

The  road  led  along  deep  precipices  ;  the  peasants’  houses 
down  in  the  valleys  were  like  playthings,  and  the  forests  like 
potato-fields  ;  suddenly  a  view  opened  between  two  rocks  — 
o  me  it  seemed  like  misty  forms  or  swimming,  aerial  moun¬ 
tains.  It  was  the  Alps  with  Mont  Blanc,  which  I  now  beheld 
for  the  first  time.  The  road  passed  downward  always  along 
the  precipice ;  it  was  as  if  we  were  lowered  down  through 
the  air.  All  was  seen  as  in  a  bird’s-eye  view.  A  thick  smoke 
ascended  from  far  below  ;  I  thougnt  it  was  a  coal-mine,  but 
:t  was  a  cloud  ascending  toward  us,  and  when  it  reached  usr 


94 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


we  beheld  before  us  Geneva  with  its  lake,  the  whole  Alpine 
range,  —  the  lowest  parts  in  a  blue  mist,  the  highest  mountain- 
forms  sharp  and  dark,  and  the  glaciers  glittering  in  the  sun. 
It  was  a  Sunday  morning  ;  a  holy  religious  feeling  filled  m) 
breast  in  this  grand  church  of  nature. 

I  knew  that  old  Purari  with  his  family  was  living  in  Geneva. 
He  came  as  an  emigrant  to  Copenhagen  and  staged  there  for 
several  years  ;  Danes  were  always  well  received  by  him.  I 
asked  a  man  in  the  street  for  Purari's  house  ;  he  proved  to  be 
one  of  his  friends,  and  accompanied  me  immediately  to  those 
kind-hearted  folks.  The  daughters  spoke  Danish  ;  our  con¬ 
versation  turned  on  Denmark,  Henrik  Hertz,  who  had  been 
Purari’s  scholar,  and  of  the  great  success  and  renown  “  Let¬ 
ters  from  the  Dead  ”  had  excited  at  home.  Purari  told  of  his 
stay  in  Copenhagen,  where  he  carried  on  a  hardware  trade 
and  gave  instructions  in  French,  and  spoke  of  Louis  Philippe’s 
stay  there  at  the  house  of  the  merchant  De  Coni  nek,  under 
the  name  of  Mr.  Muller,  on  a  voyage  to  North  Cape  as  a 
botanist.  Purari  was  one  day  invited  to  dine  with  him  at  the 
palace  ;  no  waiters  were  present,  Louis  Philippe  arranging 
himself  all  that  belonged  to  the  table. 

The  Alps  appeared  to  lie  so  near  the  town  that  I  wished  to 
take  a  morning  walk  up  to  them  ;  but  it  was  as  if  the  moun¬ 
tains  kept  retiring.  I  walked  and  walked  ;  it  was  noon  before 
I  reached  the  foot  of  the  first  rock,  and  evening  before  I  came 
back  to  Geneva. 

Past  Lausanne  and  Vevay  I  reached  Chillon,  —  the  old, 
picturesque  castle,  which  had  so  much  excited  my  interest 
before  by  Byron’s  poem  of  “  The  Prisoner  of  Chillon.”  The 
whole  country  made  an  impression  on  me  as  if  I  were  in  the 
South,  although  the  mountains  of  Savoy  before  me  glittered 
with  snow  ;  but  below  by  the  deep  green  lake,  where  the 
castle  was  situated,  vine  and  corn  fields  stretched  ,  stout  old 
chestnut-trees  cast  a  shade  arid  bent  their  branches  in  rich 
abundance  over  the  water.  I  walked  over  the  draw-bridge 
into  the  darksome  yard  of  the  castle  ;  I  perceived  some  small 
apertures  in  the  wall,  from  which  in  former  times  they  pourec 
hot  oil  and  water  over  the  assailants. 

In  the  chambers  of  the  castle  were  trap  doors,  which,  when 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


95 

stepped  upon,  whipped  round,  and  the  poor  victims  .vere  pre¬ 
cipitated  down  into  the  deep  sea  or  were  spitted  on  iron  nails, 
Fastened  in  the  rock  below.  In  the  cellars  were  rusting  the 
iron  rings  to  which  the  prisoners’  chains  had  been  fastened 
a  flat  stone  had  served  as  couch.  On  one  of  the  pillars  Byrov 
had,  in  1826,  carved  his  name.  The  woman,  who  was  mj 
guide,  told  me  that  she  did  not  know  him,  and  had  tried 
to  hinder  him  from  doing  it,  but  in  vain  :  and  now  every 
one  looks  on  those  letters,  for  “  it  was  such  an  extraordinary 
person,  that  gentleman,”  said  she,  and  nodded  very  signifi¬ 
cantly. 

From  Chillon  commenced  the  ascent  of  the  Jura  Mountains, 
always  higher  and  higher  up,  until  I  reached  my  new  home 
the  watch-making  city  Le  Locle. 

This  little  city  is  situated  in  a  valley  of  the  Jura  Mountains, 
where  in  former  ages  the  sea  had  been,  and  petrifactions  of 
fishes  were  still  to  be  seen.  Often  the  clouds  floated  below 
us,  and  there  was  a  repose  and  stillness  among  the  dark  pine- 
trees,  the  grass  was  freshly  green,  and  round  about  glittered  the 
juicy  violet  colored  crocus.  The  peasants’  houses  were  white 
and  clean,  and  each  of  them  was  stocked  with  watches.  The 
bilberry  bushes  with  their  red  clusters  recalled  me  the  pictures 
in  an  ABC  book,  and  the  berries  were  beautifully  red  and 
reminded  me  of  my  home. 

Le  Locle  is  a  pretty  important  town,  and  here  I  found 
a  blessed  home  in  an  amiable  family  of  a  wealthy  watch-maker, 
the  family  Houriet ;  the  man  was  a  brother-in-law  of  our  de¬ 
ceased,  skillful  Urban  Jiirgensen.  I  was  received  like  a  deal 
relation,  and  they  would  not  hear  a  word  about  payment.  *'  It 
i*  an  invitation,”  said  the  man  and  wife  ;  they  pressed  :.iy 
hands  and  I  became  good  friends  with  all,  and  with  the  chil¬ 
dren  too. 

There  were  two  old  aunts  in  the  house,  Rosalie  and  Lydia, 
and  it  was  a  good  exercise  for  me  to  talk  to  them  in  French 
of  Denmark,  and  of  their  dear  sis:er,  whom  they  had  not  seen 
since  she  went  away,  quite  young,  with  her  husband.  They 
spoke  only  French  and  did  not  understand  other  languages, 
and  though  I  spoke  it  but  very  poorly  they  understood  mo 
well,  and  I  them. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


96 

Although  it  was  August  they  made  fire  in  my  stove  everj 
morning  and  evening;  some  days  it  snowed,  but  I  knew  tha4 
below  the  Jura  Mountains  it  was  still  warm  and  delicious  sum¬ 
mer  weather.  I  was  only  two  hours  distant  from  it.  In  the 
evenings,  in  that  elevated  region,  there  was  a  solemn  repose 
in  nature,  and  the  sound  of  the  evening-bells  ascended  to  us 
from  the  French  frontier  beyond  the  river.  At  some  distance 
from  the  city  stood  a  solitary  house,  painted  white  and  clean. 
On  descending  through  two  cellars,  the  noise  of  a  mill-wheel 
was  heard,  and  the  rushing  waters  of  a  river  which  flowed 
on,  hidden  here  from  the  world.  I  often  visited  this  place 
and  the  beautiful  Doub-fall  some  distance  off.  In  my  novel 
“  O.  T.”  I  have  described  the  scenery  and  the  recollections  of 
my  stay  in  Le  Locle. 

Political  agitation  had  also  found  its  way  to  this  little  city 
high  up  on  the  mountains  and  shut  in  by  forests,  —  this  home 
of  my  repose.  The  canton  of  Neufchatel  belongs  to  Prussia, 
and  from  being  good  neighbors,  the  Prussian  party  and  the 
Swiss  party  among  the  peasants  opposed  each  other,  shunned 
each  other,  and  each  sang  their  own  songs.  Sometimes  it 
came  to  small  railleries.  I  heard  from  a  genuine  Switzer,  who 
had  in  his  bedroom  a  framed  picture  of  William  Tell  shooting 
the  apple  off  his  son’s  head,  that  one  of  the  Prussian  party 
had  destroyed  it  by  pressing  his  elbow  against  the  glass,  and 
thus  spoiled  the  engraving  :  “  He  did  it  on  purpose  !  ”  said  he. 
All  those  political  clouds  passed  lightly  over  me.  I  lived  a 
happy  family  life  and  was  a  dear  guest.  I  got  a  far  better 
insight  into  the  domestic  life  and  the  customs  and  manners 
of  the  country  than  travellers  generally  do. 

Besides  this  I  was  occupied  in  writing  a  new  poem.  Dur¬ 
ing  my  journey  from  home,  and  while  staying  in  Paris,  the 
idea  of  a  poem  fixed  itself  firmer  and  firmer  in  my  mine 
and  I  hoped,  as  it  became  more  clearly  worked  out,  to  pro 
pitiate  my  enemies  by  it,  and  get  their  recognition  as  being  a 
true  poet.  The  old  Danish  folk-song  of  “  Agnete  and  the 
Merman”  was  the  subject  I  meant  to  treat. 

In  Paris  I  wrote  the  first  part  of  it,  and  in  Le  Lrcle  I  fin¬ 
ished  my  poem  and  sent  it  home.  I  accompanied  it  vith  pref¬ 
atory  remarks,  which  I  should  not  now  write  as  I  then  did, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  97 

nor  should  I  treat  the  subject  of  Agnete  as  then.  The  pref 
ace  is  very  characteristic  of  me  at  that  time  :  — 

r<  Even  as  a  child,  the  ^old  story  of  ‘  Agnete  and  the 
Merman,’  representing  the  double  world,  the  earth  and  the 
sea,  took  hold  of  me.  When  grown  up  I  beheld  in  it  a  gieat 
image  of  life,  with  the  never  satisfied  desire  of  the  heart:,  and 
its  strange  longing  after  another  new  existence.  It  had  long 
been  my  thought  to  express  what  so  occupied  my  soul.  The 
old  song  from  my  home  resounded  in  my  ear  in  the  midst  of 
the  excitement  of  Paris  ;  it  went  with  me  on  the  gay  Boulevard 
and  among  the  treasures  of  art  at  the  Louvre.  The  whole 
grew  out  of  my  heart  before  I  was  aware  of  it  myself. 

“  Far  from  Paris,  high  up  in  the  Jura  Mountains,  in  a  north 
ern  clime,  among  dark  forests  of  pin^s  silent  as  death,  is 
Agnete’s  birthplace,  but  it  is  Danish  in  soul  and  mind.  I  send 
my  dear  child  to  my  father-land,  where  it  belongs.  Receive 
her  kindly  ;  she  brings  my  greetings  to  all  of  you. 

“  As  abroad  all  Danes  become  friends  and  brothers,  so  she 
also  goes  toward  kindred  and  friends.  Snow  falls  at  my 
window,  heavy  winter  clouds  hover  over  the  forest,  but  below 
the  mountain  are  summer,  grapes  and  corn.  To-morrow  I 
journey  over  the  Alps  to  Italy;  perhaps  there  I  shall  dream 
a  beautiful  dream,  which  I  then  will  send  to  my  dear  Denmark 
for  the  son  must  tell  the  mother  his  dreams.  Farewell ! 

“  H.  C.  Andersen. 

“Le  Locle,  in  the  Jura  Mountains,  14  Septeviber,  1833.” 

My  poem  reached  Copenhagen,  and  was  printed  and  sold 
7  hey  sneered  at  the  passage  in  the  preface  of  “Agnete  ”  :  “  The 
whole  grew  out  of  my  heart  before  I  was  aware  of  it.”  It  was 
coldly  received,  and  people  said  that  I  had  done  it  in  imi¬ 
tation  of  Oehlenschlager,  who  at  one  time  used  to  send 
home  masterpieces.  At  the  same  time  that  “  Agnete  ”  was 
published,  Paludan  Muller  published  also  his  poem  “  Amor 
and  Psyche,”  which  captivated  every  one. 

By  comparison  with  this  the  weakness  in  my  book  was 
felt  the  more.  It  was  noticed  in  the  “  Monthly  Review  of  Lit¬ 
erature,”  but  not  praised.  The  poem  did  not  produce  the  effect 

7 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


9s 

•  • 

on  H.  C.  Orsted  that  I  expected  ;  in  a  long  and  very  an  iable 
letter,  dated  March  8,  1834,  which  I  received  in  Italy,  he 
spoke  freely  and  justly  of  my  poem,  and  many  years  after¬ 
ward  I  was  ready  to  acknowledge*  that  he  was  right. 

My  poem,  “  Agnete,”  with  all  its  faults,  was,  however,  a  step 
forward ;  my  purely  subjective  poetical  nature  tried  here  to 
display  itself  objectively.  I  was  in  a  transition  period,  and 
this  poem  closed  my  pure  lyrical  phasis.  It  has  been  also  of 
late  critically  said  in  Denmark,  that  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  on  its  first  appearance  it  excited  far  less  attention  than 
some  of  my  earlier  and  less  successful  works,  yet  in  it  the 
poetry  is  of  a  deeper,  fuller,  and  more  powerful  character  than 
any  which  I  had  hitherto  produced. 

The  producing  it  on  the  stage  in  a  shorter  form  and  with 
some  alterations  was.  an  experiment  aimed  at  attracting  a 
large  audience  to  a  summer  performance ;  ii  was  given  twice, 
but  I  was  abroad  then  also.  Notwithstanding  Mrs.  Heiberg 
played  the  part  of  Agnete  very  genially  and  touchingly,  and 
that  Nils  Gade  had  composed  pretty  music  for  the  single 
songs  and  choruses,  it  could  not  be  kept  up.  “  Agnete  ”  was 
sent  home  ;  she  was  for  me  a  beautiful  statue  seen  only  by  me 
and  God  !  Hope  and  dreaming  clung  closely  to  this  poem, 
which  took  its  way  northward.  The  following  day  I  set  out 
for  the  South,  for  Italy,  where  a  new  portion  of  my  life  was  to 
begin. 

At  my  departure  from  those  dear  people  in  Le  Locle  the 
children  wept.  We  had  become  friends,  although  I  could  not 
understand  their  patois :  they  shouted  loudly  into  my  ear,  be¬ 
cause  they  fancied  I  must  be  deaf,  as  I  could  not  understand 
them.  Even  the  servants  wept  and  squeezed  my  hands.  The 
old  aunts  had  knit  woolen  cuffs  to  wear  on  the  cold  passage 
over  the  Simplon. 

“  Agnete  ”  and  my  stay  in  Le  Locle  close  one  portion  of 
my  poetical  life. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


ON  the  5th  of  September,  1833,  I  crossed  the. Simplon  on 
my  way  to  Italy.  On  the  very  day  on  which,  fourteen 
years  before,  I  had  arrived  poor  and  helpless  in  Copenhagen, 
did  I  set  foot  in  this  country  of  my  longing  and  of  my  poet¬ 
ical  happiness. 

What  grandeur  of  nature  !  Our  heavily  laden  coach  with 
its  team  of  horses  was  like  a  fly  on  a  gigantic  block ;  we  crept 
along  the  rocky  road  which,  at  Napoleon’s  command,  had 
broken  through  this  spine  of  the  earth  ;  the  glass-green  gla¬ 
ciers  shone  over  us  ;  it  grew  colder  and  colder  ;  the  shepherds 
were  wrapped  in  cowhides,  and  the  inns  kept  up  good  tires 
in  their  stoves  ;  it  was  full  winter  here,  but  in  a  few  minutes 
the  coach  was  rolling  along  under  chestnut-trees,  whose  long 
and  green  leaves  glittered  in  the  warm  sunshine.  Domo 
d’Ossola’s  market-places  and  streets  gave  us  in  miniature  a 
picture  of  the  national  street-life. 

Lago  Maggiore  shone  between  the  dark-blue  mountains  ; 
beautiful  islets,  like  bouquets,  floated  upon  the  water :  but  it 
was  cloudy  ;  the  skies  were  gray,  as  in  Denmark.  When  even¬ 
ing  came,  all  was  again  whiffed  away  ;  the  air  shone  trans¬ 
parent  and  serene,  and  the  skies  seemed  to  float  thrice  as  high 
as  at  home.  The  vines  hung  in  long  trails  along  the  road,  as 
for  a  feast.  Never  since  have  I  seen  Italy  so  beautiful. 

The  Cathedral  of  Milan  was  the  first  work  of  art  I  beheld 
in  Italy.  I  climbed  the  marble-rock  that  art  has  hollowed  out 
and  formed  into  arches,  towers,  and  statues,  rising  in  the  clear 
moonlight,  and  had  there  a  view  of  the  Alps  with  their  gla¬ 
ciers,  and  of  the  whole  green,  fertile  Lombard  country.  Porta 
Sempione,  called  by  the  people  after  Napoleon’s  name,  was 
still  in  course  of  erection.  In  La  Scala  were  given  operas 
and  ballets;  all  was  visited  and  seen,  but  the  cathedral  of 


lOO 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Milan,  was,  however,  the  place  where  the  heart  was  elevated  in 
devotional  tranquillity  by  listening  to  the  beautiful  church 
music. 

I  left  this  magnificent  city  in  company  with  two  country¬ 
man  ;  our  vetturino  carried  us  through  the  country  of  the 
Lombards,  which  was  as  flat  as  our  green  islands  at  home, 
and  as  fertile  and  beautiful  as  they.  The  rich  maize-fields, 
the  beautiful  weeping-willows,  were  new  to  us.  The  moun 
tains  we  passed  seemed,  however,  insignificant  after  seeing 
the  Alps.  At  last  we  got  a  view  of  Genoa,  and  also  of  the  sea 
which  I  had  not  seen  since  I  left  Denmark.  The  Danes  feel 
the  same  affection  for  the  sea  as  the  mountaineers  feel  for 
their  mountains.  From  my  balcony  I  could  look  out  over 
that  new,  yet  familiar,  dark-blue,  level  stretch. 

In  the  evening  I  went  to  the  theatre  in  the  main  street,  the 
only  large  street  in  Genoa.  As  a  great  public  building,  I 
thought  it  must  be  very  easy  to  find,  but  it  was  not  so  ;  one  pal¬ 
ace  more  magnificent  than  the  other  lay  side  by  side  ;  at  last  a 
huge  marble  Apollo,  shining  white  as  snow,  showed  me  where 
the  place  was. 

A  new  opera  was  presented  for  the  first  time :  it  was 
Donizetti’s  “  Elisire  d’Amore  ;  ”  after  that  was  given  a  comic 
ballet,  “II  Flauto  Magico.”  The  sound  of  the  flute  compelled 
all  to  dance  :  at  last  even  the  supreme  council  itself  and  all 
the  old  pictures  on  the  walls  of  the  city  hall,  —  an  idea  I 
have  later  applied  in  the  comedy  “  Ole  Lukoie.” 

A  written  permit  of  the  Admiralty  got  us  admission  into 
the  Arsenal,  where  the  galley-slaves,  then  about  six  hundred 
in  number,  lived  and  worked. 

We  visited  the  inner  prisons,  the  dormitory  with  large  barrack 
beds  along  the  walls,  furnished  with  iron  chains,  to  which  the 
prisoners  were  attached  when  they  went  to  bed.  Even  in  the 
sick-rooms  some  of  the  prisoners  were  chained  to  their  beds. 

Three  agonizing  prisoners  with  livid  faces  and  bursting  eyes 
made  a  dreadful  impression  on  me.  They  observed  my 
emotion,  and  one  of  the  prisoners  looked  at  me  with  a  sinister 
took.  I  understood  him.  I  was  here  only  out  of  curiosity  ta 
see  their  sufferings.  He  burst  out  into  a  coarse  laugh,  half 
rising  up  in  the  bed,  and  fixing  his  evil  eyes  diabolically  upor 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


IOl 


me.  Here,  loaded  down  with  chains,  lay  a  blind  old  man  with 
silvery  hair. 

In  the  yard  were  different  working- rooms  ;  several  of  the 
galley-slaves  were  chained  together,  two  and  two.  I  saw  one 
prisoner,  dressed  of  course  as  the  others,  in  white  pantaloons 
and  red  shirt,  but  the  stuff  was  finer  ;  he  was  young  and  with¬ 
out  chains.  They  told  us  that  he  was  a  man  from  the  city, 
who  had  done  a  large  business,  but  had  stolen  enormous 
sums  and  otherwise  cheated  the  city ;  now  he  was  sentenced 
to  stay  two  years  in  the  galleys :  he  did  not  work,  nor  was  he 
in  irons  during  the  day,  but  in  the  night  he  was  locked  in 
together  with  the  others,  and  like  them  chained  to  the  bed. 
His  wife  frequently  sent  him  money  ;  he  lived  sumptuously 
within  these  walls  ;  but  what  was  that  when  he  was  always  with 
these  criminals,  and  in  the  night  chained  with  them  and  forced 
to  listen  to  their  ribaldry  and  wickedness  ? 

The  first  day’s  journey  from  Genoa  along  the  shore  south¬ 
ward  is  one  of  the  finest  journeys  one  can  make.  Genoa  is 
situated  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  and  surrounded  by 
green  olive  woods.  Oranges  and  pomegranates  hung  in  the 
gardens;  grass-green,  shining  lemons  heralded  the  spring; 
while  the  inhabitants  of  northern  countries  now  were  looking 
for  winter. 

One  picture  of  beauty  followed  another  ;  all  was  new  and 
ever  memorable  to  me.  I  still  see  the  old  bridges  covered 
with  ivy,  and  the  Capuchins  and  crowds  of  Genoese  fisher¬ 
men  with  their  red  caps. 

The  wholes  sea-coast  with  its  beautiful  villas,  and  the  sea 
white  with  sailors  and  steamers,  produced  a  grand  effect. 
Later  I  discovered  far  away  bluish  mountains:  they  were  those 
of  Corsica,  the  cradle  of  Napoleon. 

At  the  foot  of  an  old  tower,  under  a  large  shady  tree,  sat 
three  old  women,  with  long  silvery  hair  falling  over  their  brown 
shoulders,  spinning  on  distaffs.  Huge  aloes  grew  at  the  road¬ 
side. 

The  reproach  will  perhaps  be  cast  at  me,  in  relating  the 
story  of  my  life,  that  I  dwell  too  long  on  Nature  in  Italy,  and 
perhaps,  not  without  reason,  may  apprehend  that  the  ac 
•scvirt  of  my  travels  will  con:  3  to  abound  in  descriptions  ;  but 


102 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


it  will  soon  be  seen  that  I  was  more  occupied  with  peisons 
whom  I  met  than  with  things.  On  the  other  hand,  nature  and 
art  were  most  prominent  in  my  mind  during  this  first  visit  to 
Italy. 

What  a  fascinating  evening  I  spent  in  Sestri  di  Levante  ! 
The  inn  lies  near  the  sea,  which  sends  its  waves  in  great  rollers 
over  the  beach.  The  sky  was  brilliant  with  fiery  red  clouds, 
the  mountains  changing  with  new  colors.  The  trees  were  like 
great  fruit-baskets,  filled  to  overflowing  with  heavy  grapes  from 
the  creeping  vines.  Suddenly  the  scene  changed  as  we  went 
higher  up  the  mountains.  All  was  then  dry  and  ugly  for  a  long 
while.  It  was  as  if  fancy,  forming  Italy  into  a  wonderfully  beau¬ 
tiful  garden,  had  thrown  away  upon  this  spot  all  its  weeds. 
The  few  scattered  trees  were  without  leaves ;  here  were 
neither  rocks  nor  mould,  only  mud,  gravel,  and  quarry  stones  ; 
and  again,  as  if  by  enchantment,  all  was  lying  in  a  Hesperian 
loveliness.  The  Bay  of  Spezzia  we  saw  before  us. 

Bewitching  blue  mountains  overhung  a  most  fertile  and 
beautiful  valley,  which  was  as  an  overflowing  horn  of  plenty ; 
the  grapes  hung  heavy  and  juicy  around  the  shady  trees ; 
oranges  and  olives  mingled  their  branches  with  them,  and  the 
vine  drooped  luxuriantly  in  long  trails  from  tree  to  tree. 
Black,  shining  swine,  without  bristles,  sprang  about  like  goats, 
and  made  the  donkeys  kick  even  when  ridden  by  a  Capuchin 
with  his  huge  green  umbrella. 

We  reached  Carrara  on  the  birthday  of  the  Duke  of  Mo¬ 
dena  ;  the  houses  were  hung  with  garlands,  the  soldiers  had 
stuck  myrtle-branches  in  their  caps,  and  the  cannon  thun¬ 
dered.  But  it  was  the  marble  quarries  we  wished  to  see  ;  they 
lie  outside  of  the  city  ;  a  clear  stream  near  the  road  slipped 
over  the  shining  snow-white  marble  stones. 

The  quarry  was  of  white  and  gray  marble,  containing  crys¬ 
tals.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  it  were  a  bewitched  mountain, 
where  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  antiquity  were  bound  in  the 
stones,  and  now  were  waiting  some  mighty  magician  —  a  Thor* 
waldsen  or  a  Canova  —  who  could  set  them  free  and  give  then: 
to  the  world. 

"Notwithstanding  all  the  novelty  and  the  beauty  of  nature, 
\  and  my  travelling  companions  very  often  had  the  spirit  of 


io3 


THE  STORY  OF  I\IY  LIFE. 

J 

Nicholas  toward  Italy,  the  mode  of  travelling  was  so  entirely 
different  from  what  we  ever  had  known  :  the  eternal  cheatings 
at  the  inns  ;  they  were  continually  asking  for  our  passports, 
which  were  examined  and  signed  more  than  fifteen  times  in  a 
few  days  ;  our  vetturino  did  not  know  the  way,  we  got  lost, 
and  instead  of  reaching  Pisa  in  the  day-time,  we  arrived  there 
in  the  middle  of  the  night.  After  being  searched  and  annoyed 
we  drove  through  the  dark  streets,  which  were  without  lan¬ 
terns  ;  the  only  light  we  had  was  a  big  burning  candle  which 
our  driver  had  bought  at  the  city  gate,  and  which  he  now  held 
before  him.  At  last  we  reached  our  destination,  “  Albergo  del 
Ussaro.”  “  One  day  like  Jeppe  we  lie  on  a  dung-hill,  the  next 
in  the  castle  of  the  baron,”  I  wrote  home,  and  here  was  the 
baron’s  castle. 

We  were  in  want  of  rest,  in  want  of  a  real  dolce  far  niente , 
before  we  could  begin  to  see  the  curiosities  of  the  city,  the 
Church,  the  Baptistery,  Campo  Santo,  and  the  Leaning  Tower. 

Our  theatie  painter  usually  represents  Campo  Santo  in  the 
scene  of  the  monastery  hall  in  “  Robert  le  Diable.”  In  the 
archway  there  stood  monuments  and  bass-reliefs,  —  one  of 
those  by  Thorwaldsen,  representing  “  Tobias’s  Recovery,”  and 
the  artist  has  portrayed  himself  as  the  young  Tobias.  The 
Leaning  Tower  was  not  very  inviting  to  ascend,  yet  we 
mounted  its  stairs.  It  is  a  cylinder  surrounded  by  pillars ; 
there  are  no  rails  at  the  top  of  it.  The  side  which  turns 
to  the  sea,  under  the  effect  of  the  sea-winds,  is  in  a  state  of 
dilapidation.  The  iron  has  crumbled,  the  stones  have  lost 
their  so’idity,  and  all  has  a  dirty  yellow  color.  I  could  look 
from  here  over  a  level  country  as  far  as  Leghorn,  which  now 
can  be  reached  in  a  short  time  by  the  railway;  but  at  that 
time  there  was  no  railway,  and  we  were  obliged  to  go  with  a 
vetturino.  He  was  but  a  poor  guide,  who  did  not  know  any¬ 
thing,  and  would  show  us  nothing  that  we  cared  to  know  about 

“  There,”  he  said,  “lives  a  Turkish  merchant,  but  his  shop 
is  closed  to-day  ;  there  is  a  church  with  beautiful  pictures,  but 
they  are  now  taken  away  ;  that  man  who  just  passed  is  one  of 
our  richest  merchants  ;  ”  and  everything  he  told  us  was  about 
as  interesting  as  that  Then  he  carried  us  to  the  synagogue, 
*  the  most  beautiful  and  rich  in  Europe  ,  ”  it  made  anything 


104 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


but  a  religious  impression  upon  us.  The  interior  was  like  an 
exchange-hall,  and  the  unusual  sight  of  worshippers  with  hats 
on,  and  speaking  to  each  other  in  a  high  key,  was  very  unpleas¬ 
ant.  Filthy  Jewish  children  stood  upon  the  chairs  ;  some  old 
Rabbis  were  grinning  from  a  kind  of  pulpit  and  enjoying  them¬ 
selves  with  some  old  Hebrews.  Up  by  the  tabernacle  the) 
pushed  and  elbowed  each  other,  and  there  was  a  general  crowd¬ 
ing  and  cuffing.  There  seemed  to  be  no  thought  of  devotion, 
and  there  could  not  well  be  either.  Overhead  on  a  large  gal¬ 
lery  the  women  were  almost  hidden  behind  a  close  frame. 

The  most  beautiful  sight  I  saw  in  Leghorn  was  a  sunset ; 
the  clouds  glittered  like  flame  ;  the  sea  shone,  the  mountains 
shone ;  it  was  like  a  frame  around  this  filthy  city,  —  a  decora¬ 
tion  which  gave  it  Italian  splendor.  Soon,  however,  this  splen¬ 
dor  was  turned  into  the  magnificence  of  art,  for  we  had  come 
to  Florence. 

I  had  never  had  an  eye  for  sculpture  ;  I  had  seen  almost 
nothing  at  home  ;  in  Paris  I  had  certainly  seen  many  statues, 
but  my  eyes  were  closed  to  them  ;  but  here  when  visiting  the 
magnificent  galleries,  the  rich  churches  with  their  monuments 
and  magnificence,  I  learned  to  understand  the  beauty  of 
form  —  the  spirit  which  reveals  itself  in  form.  Before  the 
“  Venus  de  Medici  ”  it  was  as  if  the  marble  eye  had  acquired 
the  power  of  sight ;  a  new  world  of  art  revealed  itself  to  me, 
and  I  could  not  escape  from  it. 

I  visited  the  galleries  daily,  and  a  new  world  was  opened  to 
me.  I  went  oftenest  to  the  Church  of  Santo  Croce  with  its 
magnificent  marble  monuments.  Sculpture,  Painting,  and 
Architecture  sit  personified  around  the  coffin  of  Michel 
Angelo.  The  corpse  of  Dante  is  kept  in  Ravenna,  but  Santo 
Croce  possesses  his  monument;  Italia  points  at  the  poet’s 
colossal  statue,  while  Poetry  mourns  over  his  sarcophagus. 
There  is  a  monument  to  Alfieri  here,  from  the  hands  of 
Canova,  adorned  with  a  mask,  a  lyre,  and  a  crown  of  laurel. 
The  tombs  of  Galileo  and  of  Machiavel  are  not  so  noticeable, 
but  the  places  are  no  less  sacred. 

One  day  three  of  us  fellow-countrymen  went  in  search  of  a 

fourth,  the  engraver  Sonne,  and  arriving  at  the  quarter  where 

we  were  told  he  lived,  we  were  talking  loudlv  with  each  other 

'  ©  * 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


•vhen  a  man  in  shirt-sleeves  and  apron  came  up  to  us  and 
asked  us  in  Danish,  “  Gentlemen,  for  whom  are  you  looking  ?  ” 
He  was  a  locksmith  from  Copenhagen,  who  had  settled  here, 
married  a  French  girl,  and  had  been  away  from  Denmark  nine 
years.  He  told  us  his  history,  and  we  in  turn  told  him  about 
home  ;  in  beautiful  Florence  he  was  still  longing  for  “  Monter 
Street.” 

Upon  leaving  Florence,  we  wished  to  go  by  Terni  to  see  the 
waterfall,  and  thence  to  Rome.  We  had  a  most  wretched  time  : 
in  the  day  burning  sunshine,  in  evening  and  night  venom¬ 
ous  flies  and  gnats  ;  added  to  that  a  disagreeable  vetturino, 
and  the  annoyances  that  such  a  man  can  inflict  on  a  traveller. 

The  sentences  glorifying  the  beauty  of  Italy,  which  we  saw 
written  on  the  window-panes  and  on  the  walls  of  the  inns,  ap¬ 
peared  to  us  to  be  travesties.  I  did  not  think  then  how  dearly 
my  heart  would  cling  to  that  memorable  and  beautiful  country. 
While  still  in  Florence,  on  entering  the  coach  which  the  vettu¬ 
rino  had  procured  us,  our  torments  began.  At  the  coach  door 
stood  a  human  figure  who,  like  Job,  scraped  himself  with  pot¬ 
sherds.  We  shook  our  heads  when  he  touched  the  coach  door  ; 
he  went  round  to  the  other  side  and  got  the  same  warning 
there  ;  he  came  back  again,  and  was  again  sent  away ;  at  last 
our  vetturino  appeared  and  told  us  that  the  man  was  „  pas¬ 
senger,  a  nobleman  from  Rome  ;  that  took  us  aback,  and  we 
let  him  in. 

But  his  filthiness  of  body  and  clothes  determined  us  at  last 
to  tell  the  vetturino  we  could  not  make  the  journey  with  the 
man  as  long  as  he  should  be  inside  the  coach,  and  so,  after  a 
good  deal  of  talk  and  gesticulating,  we  saw  the  “  nobleman  ” 
climbing  up  to  the  driver.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  I  was 
lorry  for  the  poor  man  ;  but  really  it  was  not  possible  for  us 
to  take  him  in  to  us,  and  so  we  let  the  rain  wash  him  clean. 

The  road  was  romantically  beautiful,  but  the  sun  was  burn¬ 
ing  hot  ;  the  flies  hummed  around  us,  and  we  tried  to  defend 
ourselves  by  myrtle  branches ;  the  horses  were  so  beset  with 
flies  that  they  looked  like  carcasses.  We  passed  the  night  in 
*  dreadful  house  at  Levane.  I  saw  the  “  nobleman  ”  standing 
ap  by  the  fire-plaje  drying  his  clothes,  while  he  helped  the 
.iostess  pluck  the  chickens  we  were  to  eat,  and  all  the  time  giv- 


io6 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


ing  vent  to  his  anger  against  us,  — the  heretical  Englisnmer 
as  he  called  us,  promising  us  a  speedy  punishment,  which  we 
really  did  get  this  very  night ;  for  we  left  our  windows  open 
to  get  fresh  air,  and  were  so  attacked  by  flies  and  gnats  that 
our  faces  and  hands  swelled  and  bled  ;  one  of  my  hands  had 
no  less  than  fifty-seven  stings,  and  I  suffered  much  from  pain 
and  fever. 

The  following  day  we  passed  Castiglione,  going  through  a 
luxuriously  beautiful  country  with  olive  woods  and  vines  ;  fine- 
looking,  half-naked  children,  and  old  women  with  silvery  hair 
tended  swine,  that  were  shining  and  black  as  coal.  At  the 
Lake  of  Thrasymene,  where  Hannibal  fought,  I  saw  on  the 
road-side  the  first  native  laurel-tree.  We  entered  now  the 
Papal  States,  and  after  having  gone  through  an  examination  of 
our  passports  and  trunks  at  the  custom-house,  we  enjoyed  the 
most  beautiful  sunset ;  such  a  gorgeousness  of  colors  I  never 
shall  forget.  But  the  inn  where  we  stayed  was  horrid  •  the 
floor  was  broken,  cripples  gathered  outside  the  door ;  the 
hostess,  dressed  in  a  dirty  wrapper,  came  grinning  like  an  ugly 
witch  and  spat  on  the  floor  every  time  she  brought  in  to  us  a 
dish  of  meat. 

I  have  recalled  that  place  in  “The  Galoshes  of  Fortune,” 
and  given  a  picture  of  it,  and  how  uncomfortable  one  may  be 
in  the  “  Bella  Italia.”  The  next  forenoon  we  reached  Pe¬ 
rugia,  the  city  where  Raphael  was  the  pupil  of  Perugino,  and 
where  we  saw  pictures  by  the  scholar  and  the  master. 

We  had  a  beautiful  view  over  the  extensive  olive  woods,  and 
beheld  the  same  scenery  which  was  reflected  in  the  eyes  of 
Raphael,  as  also  once  in  the  eyes  of  the  Emperor  Augustus 
when  the  arch  of  triumph,  built  of  freestone,  was  erected  for 
him,  and  is  still  in  the  same  state  as  if  finished  yesterday. 

In  the  evening  we  arrived  at  Foligno.  The,  city  was  in  a 
very  dilapidated  state  ;  almost  all  the  houses  in  the  main 
street  were  supported  by  beams  from  the  opposite  houses. 
A  short  time  since  an  earthquake  occurred  here  ;  the  walls  had 
great  cracks,  and  some  of  the  houses  lay  in  ruins.  It  began 
to  rain  ;  the  inn  was  but  a  very  poor  shelter,  and  the  meat 
could  not  be  eaten  even  by  us,  who  were  almost  starving  from 
our  long  first. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


107 


“  Kennst  du  das  Land  ”  — 

sang  a  young  German  in  parody,  while  the  wind  and  rain 
shook  the  miserable  windows.  We  said  to  ourselves,  if  now 
a  new  earthquake  should  come,  the  whole  town  would  tumble 
down  ;  but  that  did  not  happen,  and  we  slept  safely. 

The  next  afternoon  we  were  in  Terni,  at  that  magnificent 
waterfall  in  the  midst  of  laurel  and  rosemary,  away  up  in 
great  olive  groves,  among  all  the  splendors  of  Italy.  A  lit¬ 
tle  stream  rushing  headlong  from  the  rock,  —  that  is  all,  but  it 
is  a  most  charming  sight ;  the  water-dust  rose  like  vapor  far  up 
in  the  air  ;  the  sun  shone  upon  all  with  intensely  red  rays, 
then  it  set,  and  suddenly  it  became  dark. 

It  wTas  deep  night  when  I  wandered  through  the  dark  olive 
woods,  separated  from  my  comrades,  in  company  with  a  lively 
young  American  gentleman,  who  told  me  of  Niagara,  of 
Cooper,  and  the  great  prairies. 

The  next  day  was  rainy,  the  road  was  bad,  the  environs  did 
not  have  anything  new  to  show  us,  and  we  were  tired  to 
death.  The  filthy  Nepi  offered  us  a  dirty  hotel  ;  but  ram¬ 
bling  about  in  the  evening,  I  came  by  accident  upon  some 
ruins  out  of  town,  where  a  waterfall  rushed  foaming  down  into 
an  abyss.  I  have  recalled  it  in  my  “  Improvisatore,  ”  where 
Antonio  for  the  last  time  sees  the  features  of  Fulvia. 

The  day  at  last  came  when  we  were  to  see  Rome.  We 
drove  in  rain  and  mud  ;  we  passed  by  “  Monte  Soracte,”  cele¬ 
brated  by  Horace’s  song,  through  the  Campagna  of  Rome  ; 
but  none  of  us  felt  its  grandeur,  nor  were  captivated  by  the 
colors  and  beautiful  outlines  of  the  mountains  ;  we  only  thought 
how  soon  we  were  to  get  there,  and  of  the  repose  we  should 
then  have.  I  must  confess  that  when  we  came  to  the  hill  of 
La  Storta,  where  those  coming  from  the  north  get  the  first 
sight  of  Rome,  I  felt  indeed  happy ;  but  the  impression  was 
not  that  of  a  poet :  at  the  first  sight  of  Rome  and  St.  Peter’s 
[  exclaimed  :  “  God  be  praised  !  now  we  can  soon  get  some 
hing  to  eat !  ” 

ROME  ! 

It  was  the  18th  of  October,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  when 
I  arrived  at  Rome,  the  city  of  cities,  where  I  soon  was  to  feel 
as  if  I  had  been  born  there  a,.d  was  in  my  own  house.  J 


IOS  *  THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 

reached  the  city  in  time  to  witness  a  most  rare  event  —  the 
second  funeral  of  Raphael.  The  Academia  St.  Luci  had 
kept  for  man*  years  a  skull  which  was  asserted  to  be  the  head 
of  Raphael ;  but  in  later  years,  its  genuineness  being  called  in 
question,  Pope  Gregory  XVI.  gave  permission  to  have  the 
grave  opened  in  the  Pantheon,  or,  as  the  place  is  now  called, 
Santa  Maria  della  Rotunda.  The  dead  man  was  found  safe 
and  sound,  and  the  corpse  was  again  to  be  deposited  in  the 
church. 

When  the  grave  was  opened  and  the  bones  brought  forth, 
the  painter  Camuccini  had  sole  permission  to  paint  the  whole 
scene.  Horace  Vernet,  who  lived  in  the  French  Academy  at 
Rome  and  knew  nothing  about  it,  took  his  pencil  and  made  a 
sketch.  The  papal  police  present  forbade  it ;  he  looked  sur¬ 
prised  at  them,  and  said  very  quietly :  “  But  at  home  I  can 
do  it  from  memory?”  Nobody  could  say  anything  against 
that,  and  in  the  time  from  twelve  o’clock  at  noon  until  six 
o’clock  in  the  evening  he  painted  a  beautiful  and  very  truth¬ 
ful  picture,  and  had  it  engraved  afterward  ;  but  the  plate  was 
immediately  seized  by  the  police  and  confiscated.  Thereupon 
Vernet  wrote  a  violent  letter  and  demanded  that  they  should 
deliver  him  the  plate  within  twenty  four  hours  ;  that  art  was  not 
a  monopoly,  like  salt  and  tobacco.  They  sent  it  back,  and  he 
broke  it  in  pieces  and  dispatched  them  with  a  letter  to 
Camuccini,  written  in  a  very  fiery  style,  telling  him  that  he 
might  know  by  this  that  he  was  not  going  to  make  use  of  it  to 
Camuccini ’s  detriment.  Camuccini  had  the  plate  put  together 
again  and  sent  it,  accompanied  with  a  very  friendly  letter,  to 
Horace  Vernet,  declaring  that  he  had  entirely  given  up  publish¬ 
ing  his  drawing.  After  that  everybody  was  allowed  to  take  a 
drawing  of  the  grave,  and  in  consequence  there  was  a  host  of 
pictures. 

Our  countrymen  procured  us  tickets  for  the  festival,  and  so 
our  first  entrance  into  Rome  was  to  attend  the  funeral  of 
Raphael. 

Upon  a  platform,  covered  with  black  cloth,  stood  a  coffin  of 
mahogany  with  cloth  of  gold.  The  priests  sung  a  Miserere ,  the 
coffin  was  opened,  and  the  reports  read  were  deposited  in  it. 

The  singing  from  an  invisible  choir  sounded  strangely  beauth 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


109 


ful,  while  the  procession  was  mo\ing  around  in  the  church, 
The  most  eminent  artists  and  men  of  rank  followed.  Here  1 
saw  again,  for  the  first  time  in  Rome,  Thorwaldsen,  who,  like 
the  others,  marched  step  by  step  bearing  his  taper.  The 
solemn  impression  was  rather  disturbed,  however,  by  the 
carelessness  with  which  they  lifted  the  coffin  on  end  to  get  it 
through  a  small  opening,  so  that  we  could  hear  the  bones  and 
joints  rattle  together. 

I  was  at  last  in  Rome,  and  very  happy.  Of  all  my  country¬ 
men,  Mr.  Christensen,  the  engraver,  received  me  most  kindly.  * 
We  had  not  before  been  personally  acquainted,  but  I  had  be¬ 
come  dear  to  him  through  my  lyric  poems.  He  took  me  at 
once  to  Thorwaldsen,  who  lived  in  his  old  place  in  Via  Felice  . 
he  was  just  then  occupied  with  his  bass-relief,  “  Raphael.” 
Raphael  is  seen  sitting  upon  some  ruins,  where  we  see  in 
bass-relief  the  Graces  ;  he  is  drawing  from  nature.  Love  holds 
the  tablet  for  him,  while  at  the  same  time  she  reaches  him  the 
poppy,  an  emblem  of  his  early  death  ;  the  Genius  with  the  torch 
looks  sorrowfully  upon  him,  and  Victory  stretches  a  wreath 
over  his  head. 

Thorwaldsen  spoke  with  great  liveliness  of  his  idea,  of  the 
feast  of  yesterday,  and  of  Raphael,  Camuccini,  and  Vernet.  He 
showed  me  many  magnificent  pictures,  which  he  had  bought  of 
masters  still  living,  and  intended  to  give  after  his  death  to  Den¬ 
mark.  The  plain  straightforwardness  and  heartiness  of  this 
great  artist  affected  me  so  that  I  almost  shed  tears  when  I 
took  leave  of  him,  although  he  said  we  must  see  each  other 
now  every  day. 

Among  other  countrymen  who  were  associated  directly  with 
me  was  Ludvig  Bodtcher,  from  whom  we  have  several  beau¬ 
tiful  poems,  Italian  in  feeling.  He  lived  a  retired  life  in  Rome, 
devoted  to  art,  nature,  and  an  intellectual  dolce  far  niente :  he 
had  spent  many  years  here  —  knew  of  all  that  was  interesting 
and  beautiful.  In  him  I  found  a  guide  who  had  intellect  and 
knowledge. 

There  was  another  with  whom  I  associated  on  even  more 
cordial  terms ;  that  was  the  painter  Kiichler,  who  was  at  that 
time  still  young,  bodily  and  spiritually,  and  not  without  humor. 

I  did  not  then  foresee  what  has  since  happened,  that  he  would 


I  IO 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


end  his  life  as  a  mendicant  friar  in  a  little  monastery  in  Silesia. 
When  several  years  after  I  visited  Rome  for  the  second  time, 
the  youthful  temperament  was  gone.  It  was  very  seldom 
that  the  humor  again  flashed  up  ;  and  in  1841,  when  for  the 
third  time  I  saw  Rome,  he  had  become  a  Catholic,  and  painted 
now  only  altar-pieces  and  religious  pictures.  He  was,  as  we 
know,  a  couple  of  years  since,  ordained  by  Pio  Nono  as 
mendicant  friar,  and  as  such  a  one  he  wandered  barefooted 
through  Germany  up  to  a  poor  monastery  in  the  Prussian 
states.  He  was  no  more  the  painter  Albert  Kuchler,  but  the 
Franciscan  Pietro  di  Sante  Pio.  May  God  grant  him  that 
peace  and  happiness  which  he,  misunderstanding  the  loving 
God,  is  surely  seeking  in  a  bewildered  way,  and  —  will  find  ! 

It  was  still  as  in  the  most  beautiful  summer  season  at 
home,  and  although  Rome  with  all  its  splendors  was  entirely 
new  to  me,  I  could  not  help  visiting  the  country  in  such 
charming  weather.  A  trip  to  the  mountains  was  agreed  upon. 
Kuchler,  Blunck,  Fearnley,  and  Bodtcher,  who  were  as  natives 
here,  acted  as  leaders.  Their  knowledge  of  the  Italian  people, 
and  of  the  manners  and  habits  of  the  country,  not  only  made 
the  trip  very  cheap,  but  I  acquired  also  such  a  clear  and  pro¬ 
found  apprehension  of  all  that  I  became  acclimatized  intellect¬ 
ually  ;  the  first  germ  of  my  pictures  of  Italian  nature  and  life 
was  planted  within  me,  and  sprung  forth  in  my  “  Improvisatore.” 
I  had  not  yet  thought  of  writing  such  a  book,  —  not  even  any 
sketches  of  travel. 

This  week’s  ramble  was  my  most  happy  and  most  enjoyable 
time  in  that  charming  country.  Across  the  Campagna,  pass¬ 
ing  by  graves  of  antiquity,  picturesque  aqueducts,  and  groups 
of  shepherds  with  their  herds,  we  kept  on  to  the  Albanian 
Mountains,  whose*  blue  and  charming  undulating  outlines 
seemed  so  near  in  the  transparent  air. 

At  Frascati,  where  we  took  our  breakfast,  I  saw  for  the  first 
time  a  really  popular  “osterie,”  crowded  with  peasants  and 
ecclesiastics.  Hens  and  chickens  ran  about  on  the  floor,  the 
fire  burned  on  the  hearth,  and  the  ragged  boys  dragged  our 
lonkeys  up  to  the  door ;  we  mounted  them,  and  continued 
our  way  on  a  trot  or  at  an  ambling  pace,  as  it  pleased  them, 
always  climbing,  — passing  the  ruins  of  Cicero’s  villa  to  the  an 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


I  I  I 


"ient  Tusculum,  which  now  offered  to  the  sight  only  paved 
streets,  but  no  houses,  only  fragments  of  walls  among  laurel 
and  chestnut-trees. 

We  visited  Monte  Pozio,  where  there  was  a  well  with  such 
a  resonance  that  it  seemed  to  hide  the  source  of  music,  —  that 
sounding  depth,  from  which  Rossini  poured  out  his  laughing 
and  triumphant  melodies,  and  where  Bellini  shed  his  tears 
and  sent  out  over  the  world  his  melancholy  tones. 

We  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  witnesses  of  more  scenes 
of  popular  life  than  travellers  nowadays  are  likely  to  see. 
We  saw  the  golden-laced  Dulcamara  himself  upon  his  medical 
car  with  his  attendants,  dressed  as  for  a  masquerade,  making 
his  quack-speech. 

We  met  with  bandits  chained  to  a  cart  drawn  by  oxen,  and 
surrounded  by  gens-d’armes ;  we  saw  a  funeral,  where  the 
corpse  lay  uncovered  upon  the  bier :  the  evening  glow  fell  on 
the  white  cheeks,  and  the  boys  ran  about  with  paper-horns, 
gathering  up  the  wax  that  dripped  from  the  monks’  tapers. 
The  bells  rung,  the  songs  resounded,  the  men  played  at  morra, 
and  the  girls  danced  the  Saltarello  to  the  sounds  of  the  tam¬ 
bourine.  I  have  never  since  seen  Italy  more  festive  and 
veautiful  ;  I  had  Pignelli’s  pictures  before  me  in  nature  and 
reality. 

We  returned  to  Rome,  to  its  magnificent  churches,  to  the 
glorious  galleries,  and  to  all  its  treasures  of  art ;  but  the  con¬ 
tinually  charming  summer  weather,  although  we  were  in  the 
middle  of  November,  recalled  us  again  to  the  mountains,  and 
this  time  we  started  for  Tivoli. 

The  morning  hours  in  the  Qampagna  were  cool  as  in  au¬ 
tumn  ;  the  peasants  made  fires  at  which  they  warmed  them¬ 
selves  ;  we  met  with  country-people  on  horseback,  dressed 
in  wide,  black,  sheep-skin  fur  coats,  as  if  we  were  in  the  coun¬ 
try  of  Hottentots  ;  but  when  the  sun  rose  we  had  again  warm 
summer  weather.  It  was  fresh  and  green  about  Tivoli,  the 
city  of  cascades  ;  the  olive  woods  were  decked  with  bouquets 
of  cypresses  and  red  vine  leaves. 

The  great  waterfalls  rushed  like  masses  of  clouds  down 
into  the  green ;  it  was  a  hot  day,  and  we  should  have  liked 
much  to  get  a  shower-bath  under  the  fountain  of  Villa  TEste. 


I  I  2 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Here  grow  the  tallest  cypresses  in  Italy,  as  mighty  as  those 
of  the  Orient.  In  the  darkness  of  the  evening  we  descended 
to  the  foot  of  the  high  waterfall  ;  our  torches  threw  a  waver¬ 
ing  light  on  the  close  laurel  hedges ;  we  listened  to  the  thun¬ 
dering  water  rushing  headlong,  and  the  depth  seemed  to  be 
not  only  greater  but  also  nearer  than  it  really  was.  We  set 
fire  to  some  bundles  of  straw,  by  which  the  old  temple  of  Sibyl 
was  illuminated,  and  with  its  colonnade  made  a  background 
to  the  trembling  flame. 

Once  more  in  Rome,  where  the  life  of  the  people  was  as 
stirring  as  in  Goethe’s  time,  and  where  the  artists  met  more 
kindly  and  tenderly  than  I  have  since  known  them  to.  The 
Scandinavians  and  Germans  formed  one  circle  ;  the  French, 
who  had  their  own  academy  under  the  direction  of  Horace  Ver- 
net,  formed  another.  At  the  dinners  in  the  osterie  “  Lepre,” 
each  nationality  had  its  own  table  ;  in  the  evening  Swedes, 
Norwegians,  Danes,  and  Germans  came  together  in  society, 
and  here  were  still  seen  notabilities  of  former  days.  I  saw  the 
two  old  landscape-painters  —  Reinhard  and  Koch,  as  well  as 
Thorwaldsen. 

Christmas  was  our  most  beautiful  feast.  I  have  mentioned 
it  in  “A  Poet’s  Bazaar,”  but  it  has  never  since  been  so  joy¬ 
ous,  so  fresh  and  bright  as  it  was  in  1833.  We  were  not  al¬ 
lowed  to  have  our  frolic  within  the  citv,  and  therefore  we 
hired  a  large  house  in  the  garden  of  Villa  Borghese,  near 
the  Amphitheatre.  The  flower-painter  Jensen,  the  medal 
engraver  Christensen,  and  I  went  out  there  early  in  the  morn¬ 
ing,  and  in  our  shirt-sleeves,  in  the  warm  sunshine,  bound 
wreaths  and  garlands.  A  large  orange-tree  hung  with  fruit 
served  for  our  Christmas-tree.  The  best  prize,  a  silver  cup, 
with  the  inscription,  “  Christmas  Eve  in  Rome,  1833,”  I  was 
happy  enough  to  win.  Each  of  the  guests  gave  a  present,  and 
one  or  another  funny  thing  was  chosen.  1  had  brought  with 
me  from  Paris  a  pair  of  big  yellow  collars,  which  were  not  fit 
for  anything  but  a  carnival  sport.  These  I  wished  to  use,  but 
my  jest  took  a  turn  that  might  easily  have  ended  in  quarrel 
and  anger.  I  had  no  idea  that  there  existed  another  opinion 
than  that  of  Thorwaldsen  being  the  most  eminent  one  present, 
and  that  I  could  therefore  present  him  the  wreath.  The  ccT 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  I  13 

lar  which  bore  the  color  of  envy,  was  thus  taken  along  with 
me  in  jest.  I  did  not  know  what  we  now  can  read  in  Thiele’s 
“  Life  of  Thorwaldsen,”  that  there  had  once  been  a  quarrel 
between  Bystrom  and  Thorwaldsen  as  to  their  respective 
abilities.  Bystrom  believed  that  Thorwaldsen  surpassed  him 
in  bass-ieliefs  but  not  in  groups.  Thorwaldsen  grew  passion¬ 
ate  and  exclaimed  :  “You  may  tie  my  hands,  and  I  will  with 
my  teeth  bite  the  marble  better  than  you  can  hew  it !  ” 

At  the  Christmas-feast  both  Thorwaldsen  and  Bystrom  were 
present.  I  had  made  a  wreath  for  my  great  countryman  and 
written  a  little  verse.  The  present  was  for  him,  but  the  yel¬ 
low  collar  which  lay  at  the  side  of  it  was  for  the  one  who,  by 
drawing  lots,  accidentally  got  this  parcel.  The  lot  was  drawn 
by  Bystrom,  and  the  contents  of  the  verse  to  the  winner  was  : 
“You  may  keep  Envy’s  yellow  collar,  but  the  wreath  you  must 
hand  to  Thorwaldsen  !  ”  In  a  moment  there  was  great  confu¬ 
sion  at  such  an  ill-mannered  act,  but  when  it  was  found  that  the 
package  had  fallen  accidentally  into  the  hands  of  Bystrom,  and 
that  it  came  from  .me,  all  was  smoothed  over  and  good-humor 
was  restored. 

I  very  seldom  received  letters  from  home,  and  except  one  or 
tTro  they  were  all  written  with  the  intent  to  instruct  me,  and 
were  often  very  inconsiderate.  They  could  not  help  grieving 
me,  and  they  affected  me  so  much  that  the  Danes  whom  I  liked 
here  in  Rome,  and  with  whom  I  associated,  always  exclaimed  : 
“  Have  you  got  another  letter  from  home  ?  I  would  not  read 
such  letters,  and  I  would  give  up  friends  who  only  pain  and 
plague  me  !  ”  Well,  I  needed  to  be  educated  and  they  took 
me  in  hand,  but  harshly  and  unkindly.  They  did  not  reflect 
how  much  a  thoughtlessly  written  word  could  affect  me , 
when  enemies  smite  with  scourges,  friends’  whips  are  scor¬ 
pions. 

I  had  not  yet  heard  anything  of  “  Agnete.”  The  first  report 
of  it  was  from  a  “good  friend.”  His  judgment  of  the  poem 
will  give  you  an  idea  of  me  as  I  was  at  that  time :  — 

“  You  know  that  your,  I  dare  almost  say,  unnatural  sensibil- 
'ty  and  childishness  make  you  very  different  from  me  —  and  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  had  expected  something  else  ;  another 
spirit,  other  ideas  and  images,  and  the  leas4-  of  ail,  such  a 

8 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


i  *4 

character  as  that  of  Henning ;  in  short,  ‘  Agnete  seems  to  b« 
like  your  other  poems  (N.  B.  like  the  best  of  3  our  poems), 
although  I  had  hoped  here  and  there  to  perceive  some  intel¬ 
lectual  change  in  you,  as  a  result  of  )*our  travelling.  “  I  have 

talked  with - -  about  it,  and  he  agrees  with  me  ;  and  as  he, 

who  is  not  only  your  friend  but  also  a  kind  of  mentor  to  you, 
has  written  to  you  concerning  it,  you  shall  be  delivered  from 

my  advice . Dear  friend,  chase  away  these  money 

troubles  and  home  thoughts,  and  turn  your  present  journey 
to  its  full  profit !  A  little  more  manliness  and  power;  a  little 
less  childishness,  eccentricity,  and  sentimentality ;  a  little 
more  study  and  depth  —  and  I  shall  congratulate  Ander¬ 
sen’s  friends  on  his  return,  and  Denmark  at  receiving  her 
poet !  ” 

That  letter  was  from  a  man  who  was  dear  to  me,  who  was 
among  my  true  friends,  younger  in  )^ears,  but  in  happy  circum¬ 
stances  and  of  ability ;  one  of  those  who  would  most  gently 
express  his  opinion,  because  I  was  “  so  sensitive,  so  childish.” 
I  am  surprised  that  he  and  other  reasonable  people  could  expect 
to  discover  a  great  change  in  me  in  “  Agnete,”  under  the  influ¬ 
ence  of  travel,  which,  as  I  have  before  said,  only  consisted 
in  my  journeying  by  steamer  from  Copenhagen  to  Kiel  ;  by  the 
diligence  to  Paris,  and,  later,  to  Switzerland  ;  and  as  soon  as 
four  months  after  my  departure,  I  had  sent  the  poem  home. 
It  required  more  time  than  that  to  see  any  results  of  my  travel, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  year  I  brought  forth  my  “  Improvisatore.” 

I  felt  so  depressed  by  this  and  other  letters  still  more  pain¬ 
ful  that  I  was  in  despair  and  on  the  point  of  forgetting  God, 
and  giving  up  Him  and  all  mankind.  I  thought  of  death  in 
an  unchristian  manner.  You  will,  perhaps,  ask  me  if  there 
were  none  at  that  time  who  could  say  any  kind  and  encourag¬ 
ing  word  of  my  “  Agnete,”  —  the  poem  which  had  sprung  out 
of  my  very  heart,  and  not,  as  they  wrote  to  me,  “  scribbled  in 
a  headlong  fashion.”  Yes,  there  was  one,  and  that  one  was 
Madame  Lassoe.  I  am  going  to  quote  a  couple  of  words  from 
her  letters :  — 

.  .  .  .  “  I  must  confess  that  1  Agnete  ’  has  r.ot  met  with 

great  success,  but  to  drag  it  down  in  the  way  you  have  heard  is 
he  work  of  malice.  There  are  many  great  beauties  in  it,  but  I 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


“5 

think  that  you  have  made  a  great  mistake  in  the  treatment  of 
that  subject.  ‘  Agnete  ’  is  a  butterfly,  which  we  well  may  look 
at  but  may  not  touch.  You  have  treated  her  very  airily, 
but  you  have  surrounded  her  with  clumsy  objects,  and  made 
her  circle  too  small  to  flutter  in.” 

When  I  was  thus  depressed  at  the  judgment  passed  upon  me 
at  home,  1  received  information  of  the  death  of  my  old  mother. 
Collin  informed  me  of  it,  and  my  first  exclamation  was:  “O 
God,  I  thank  Thee  !  Now  her  poverty  is  at  an  end,  and  I 
could  not  relieve  her  from  it !  ”  I  wept,  but  could  not  familiarize 
myself  with  the  thought  that  I  now  possessed  not  a  single  one 
in  the  world  who  would  love  me  because  I  was  of  the  same 
kith  and  kin.  That  new  impression  brought  forth  tears,  which 
I  shed  profusely,  and  I  had  a  perception  that  that  which  had 
happened  was  the  best  for  her.  I  had  never  been  able  to 
make  her  last  days  bright  and  free  from  sorrow.  She  died 
in  the  happy  belief  of  my  success,  and  that  I  had  become 
famous. 

The  poet  Henrik  Hertz  was  among  those  who  had  lately 
arrived  at  Paris.  He  was  the  one  who  had  attacked  me  se¬ 
verely  in  the  “  Letters  from  the  Dead.”  Collin  wrote  to  me 
that  Hertz  would  come,  and  that  he  would  be  glad  to  hear 
we  had  met  as  friends. 

I  was  in  “  Cafe  Graeco  ”  when  Hertz  one  day  entered  ;  he 
go.ve  me  his  hand  kindly,  and  I  took  great  pleasure  in  con¬ 
versing  with  him.  As  soon  as  he  perceived  my  sorrow,  and 
understood  my  sufferings,  he  spoke  very  consoling  words. 
He  spoke  of  my  works,  of  his  opinion  of  them,  hinted  at 
the  “  Letters  from  the  Dead,”  and,  strange  to  say,  begged  me 
not  to  disregard  harsh  criticism,  asserting  that  the  romantic 
sphere  in  which  I  moved  drove  me  into  extravagances.  He 
liked  my  pictures  of  nature,  in  which  my  humor  was  especially 
manifested,  and  as  for  the  rest,  he  was  sure  it  must  be  a  con¬ 
solation  to  me  that  almost  all  true  poets  had  gone  through 
the  same  crisis  as  I,  and  that  after  this  purgatory  I  would 
come  to  a  sense  of  what  was  truth  in  the  realm  of  art ! 

Hertz,  together  with  Thorwaldsen,  heard  me  read  “  Agnete,” 
and  remarked  that  he  had  not  well  caught  the  whole  poem, 
but  had  found  the  lyric  passages  very  successful,  and  thought 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE, 


1 1 6 

that  what  they  at  home  called  errors  of  form  were  what  the 
romance  lost  by  being  treated  dramatically.  Thorwaldsen 
did  not  say  much,  but  sat  and  listened  attentively  with  a  seri¬ 
ous,  thoughtful  face  while  I  read.  When  his  look  met  mine, 
he  nodded  kindly  and  cheerfully.  He  pressed  my  hand  and 
praised  the  melody.  “  It  is  so  real  Danish,”  said  he,  “  and 
springs  from  the  woods  and  the  sea  at  home.” 

It  was  in  Rome  that  I  first  became  acquainted  with  Thor* 
waldsen.  Many  years  before,  when  I  had  not  long  been  in 
Copenhagen,  and  was  walking  through  the  streets  as  a  poor 
boy,  Thorwaldsen  was  there  too  :  that  was  on  his  first  return 
home.  We  met  one  another  in  the  street.  I  knew  that  he 
was  a  distinguished  man  in  art ;  I  looked  at  him,  I  bowed  ; 
he  went  on,  and  then,  suddenly  turning  round,  came  back  to 
me  and  said,  “  Where  have  I  seen  you  before  ?  I  think  we 
know  one  another.”  I  replied,  “  No,  we  do  not  know  one 
another  at  all.”  I  now  related  this  story  to  him  in  Rome  ; 
he  smiled,  pressed  my  hand,  and  said,  “Yet  we  felt  at  that 
time  that  we  should  become  good  friends.”  I  read  “  Agnete  ” 
to  him  ;  and  that  which  delighted  me  in  his  judgment  upon  it 
was  the  assertion,  “  It  is  just,”  said  he,  “  as  if  I  were  walking 
at  home  in  the  woods,  and  heard  the  Danish  lakes  ;  ”  and 
then  he  kissed  me. 

One  day,  when  he  saw  how  distressed  I  was,  and  I  told 
him  about  the  pasquinade  which  I  had  received  from  home 
in  Paris,  he  gnashed  his  teeth  violently,  and  said,  in  momen¬ 
tary  anger,  “  Yes,  yes,  I  know  the  people  ;  it  would  not  have 
gone  any  better  with  me  if  I  had  remained  there  ;  I  should 
then,  perhaps,  not  even  have  obtained  permission  to  set  up  a 
model.  Thank  God  that  I  did  not  need  them,  for  there  thev 
know  how  to  torment  and  to  annoy.”  He  desired  me  to  keep 
up  a  good  heart,  and  then  things  could  not  fail  of  going  well  ; 
and  with  that  he  told  me  of  some  dark  passages  in  his  own 
life,  where  he  in  like  manner  had  been  mortified  and  unjustly 
condemned. 

After  the  Carnival  I  left  Rome  for  Naples.  Hertz  and  I 
travelled  together.  My  intercourse  with  him  was  of  great 
value  to  me,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  one  more  generous 
critic.  We  travelled  over  the  Albanian  Mountains  and  through 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIbE. 


n; 

the  Pontine  Marshes,  and  reached  Terracina,  where  the  oranges 
grow,  where  we  saw  our  first  palm-trees  in  the  gardens  near 
the  road  ;  the  Indian  fig  spreads  its  heavy  leaves  along  the 
rocks,  where  we  see  the  ruins  of  Theodoric’s  Castle  ;  Cyclopean 
walls,  laurel  and  myrtle  became  soon  an  every-day  sight.  We 
saw  from  Cicero’s  villa  in  Mola  di  Gaeta  the  open  Garden  of 
the  Hesperides.  I  strolled  in  the  warm  air  under  the  large 
lemon  and  orange-trees,  and  threw  the  yellow',  shining  fruits 
into  the  charming  blue  sea,  which  gleamed  and  broke  in  gen¬ 
tle  waves. 

We  remained  here  a  day  and  night,  and  arrived  at  Naples 
in  time  to  see  the  full  eruption  of  Vesuvius.  Like  long  roots 
of  fire  from  a  pine-tree  of  smoke  the  lava  flowed  down  the 
dark  mountain. 

I  went  with  Hertz  and  some  other  Northmen  to  visit  the 
eruption.  The  road  winds  through  vineyards  and  by  the  side 
of  lonely  buildings,  the  vegetation  changing  soon  into  mere 
rushes  ;  the  evening  was  infinitely  beautiful. 

From  the  hermitage  we  wandered  on  foot  up  the  mountain 
ankle-deep  in  ashes  ;  I  was  in  a  happy  humor,  sang  loudly 
one  of  Weyse’s  melodies,  and  was  the  first  to  reach  the  sum¬ 
mit.  The  moon  shone  directly  upon  the  crater,  from  which 
ascended  a  pitch-black  smoke  ;  glowing  stones  were  thrown 
up  in  the  air  and  fell  almost  perpendicularly  down  again ;  the 
mountain  shook  under  our  feet.  At  each  eruption  the  moon 
was  covered  by  smoke,  and  as  it  was  a  dark  night  we  were 
obliged  to  stand  still  and  hold  on  by  the  big  lava  blocks.  We 
perceived  that  it  was  gradually  growing  warmer  beneath  us. 

•t 

The  new  lava  stream  burst  forth  from  the  mountain  out  toward 
the  sea.  We  wished  to  go  thither,  and  we  were  obliged  to  pass 
over  a  lava  stream  recently  hardened  ;  only  its  upper  crust  was 
fiffened  by  the  air,  red  fire  gleamed  forth  from  rifts  here  and 
where.  Led  by  our  guide  we  stepped  upon  the  surface,  which 
heated  us  through  our  boot-soles.  If  the  crust  had  broken,  we 
should  certainly  have  sunk  down  into  a  fiery  abyss.  We  ad¬ 
vanced  silently  and  reached  the  lava  blocks  that  had  been 
hurled  down,  where  we  met  with  many  travellers,  and  from  here 
we  looked  out  over  the  stream  of  fire  that  was  breaking  forth 
and  rolling  down  —  a  sort  of  fery  gruel!  The  sulphurous 


I 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


1 1 8 

vapor  was  very  intense ;  we  could  scarcely  endure  the  heat 
under  our  feet,  and  were  not  able  to  stand  here  more  than  a 
few  minutes  ;  but  what  we  saw  is  burned  into  our  thoughts. 
We  saw  round  about  us  abysses  of  fire,  and  out  of  the  crater 
it  whistled  as  if  a  mighty  flock  of  birds  were  flying  up  from 
a  wood. 

We  could  not  mount  to  the  very  cone,  because  red-hot  stones 
were  continually  raining  down.  About  an  hour  was  occupied  in 
the  short  but  heavy  climbing  up  to  the  place  where  we  stood, 
while  it  only  took  ten  minutes  to  descend.  We  went  at  a  fly¬ 
ing  pace  ;  for  to  keep  from  falling  upon  our  face  we  had  to 
drive  our  heels  in  constantly  ;  often  we  fell  flat  upon  our  backs 
in  the  soft  ashes.  The  descent  was  a  merry  fall  through  the 
air.  It  was  charming,  tranquil  weather  ;  the  lava  shone  from 
the  black  ground  like  colossal  stars.  The  moonshine  was 
clearer  than  it  is  at  home  in  the  North  at  noon-time  on  a 
gloomy  autumn  day. 

When  we  came  down  to  Portici  we  found  all  the  houses  and 
doors  shut,  not  a  man  to  be  seen,  and  no  coaches  to  be  had, 
and  so  the  whole  company  went  home  a-foot ;  but  Hertz  was 
obliged  to  lag,  as  on  the  descent  he  had  bruised  his  foot  ;  so 
I  stayed  by  him,  and  we  walked  slowly  and  soon  were  both  quite 
alone.  The  flat-roofed  white  houses  shone  in  the  clear  moon¬ 
shine  ;  we  did  not  meet  nor  see  a  man  :  Hertz  said,  that  it 
seemed  to  him  as  if  we  were  passing  through  the  extinct  city 
in  the  “  Arabian  Nights.” 

We  spoke  of  poetry  and  of  eating.  We  were  indeed  uncom¬ 
monly  hungry,  and  every  osterie  was  closed,  so  we  were  com¬ 
pelled  to  endure  it  until  we  should  reach  Naples.  The  large 
undulating  outlines  were  broken  in  the  moonlight  as  if  it  were 
blue  fire  ;  Vesuvius  cast  up  its  pillar  of  fire,  the  lava  was  re¬ 
flected  as  a  dark-red  stripe  in  the  quiet  sea.  Several  times 
we  stopped  in  silent  admiration,  but  our  conversation  always 
turned  again  upon  a  good  supper,  and  that  late  in  the  night 
was  the  bouquet  of  the  whole. 

Later  I  visited  Pompeii,  Herculaneum,  and  the  Grecian 
temple  at  Paestum.  There  I  saw  a  poor  little  girl  in  rags,  but 
an  image  of  beauty,  a  living  statue,  yet  still  a  child.  She  hac 
some  blue  violets  in  her  black  hair  ;  that  was  all  her  ornament 


i 


TF1F  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  19 

She  made  an  impression  upon  me  as  if  she  were  a  spirit  from 
the  world  of  beauty.  I  could  not  give  her  money,  but  stood 
in  reverence  and  looked  at  her,  as  if  she  were  the  goddess  her¬ 
self  appearing  from  that  temple  upon  the  steps  of  which  she 
was  seated  among  the  wild  figs. 

The  days  were  like  the  beautiful  summer  of  the  North,  and 
we  were  in  the  month  of  March.  The  sea  looked  very  invit¬ 
ing,  and  I  sailed  with  a  party  in  an  open  boat  from  Salerno  to 
Amalfi  and  Capri,  where  the  Blue  Grotto  some  years  ago  had 
been  discovered,  and  was  now  the  great  attraction  to  all  trav¬ 
ellers  here.  The  witch-hole,  as  it  was  called  here,  had  become 
the  wonderful  grotto  of  the  fairies.  I  was  one  of  the  first 
who  described  it ;  years  have  since  elapsed,  but  storm  and 
undulation  have  always  since  prevented  me  from  again  visiting 
this  magnificent  spot ;  yet  once  seen  it  never  can  be  forgotten. 
I  was  not  so  much  taken  with  Ischia,  and  subsequent  visits 
have  not  been  able  to  put  it  beside  the  island  of  the  Tiber, 
the  wooden-shoe-shaped  Capri. 

Malibran  was  in  Naples;  I  heard  her  in  “Norma,”  “The 
Barber,”  and  “  La  prova.”  And  so  from  the  world  of  music 
Italy  disclosed  a  wonder  to  me  ;  I  wept  and  laughed,  and 
was  raised  to  a  pitch  of  excitement.  In  the  midst  of  the  en¬ 
thusiasm  and  applause  I  heard  a  hiss  thrown  at  her,  —  only  a 
single  hiss.  Lablache  made  his  appearance  as  Zampa  in  the 
opera  “Zampa,”  but  he  was  ever  memorable  as  Figaro , — 
what  liveliness,  what  gayety  ! 

On  the  twentieth  of  March  we  returned  for  Easter  week  to 
Rome.  The  mountains  were  dressed  in  winter  garments. 
We  visited  Caserta  to  see  the  great  royal  castle  there,  wit! 
its  rich  saloons  and  pictures  from  the  time  of  Murat  ;  we  went 
to  see  the  amphitheatre  at  Capua,  with  its  vaults  under  the 
floor,  —  huge  openings,  which  have  been  furnished  with  con¬ 
trivances  so  that  one  can  go  up  and  down.  All  was  seen. 

The  Easter  Eeast  kept  us  in  Rome.  At  the  illumination  of 
the  dome  I  was  separated  from  my  company.  The  great  crowd 
of  people  carried  me  away  with  them  over  the  Angelo  bridge, 
and  when  I  had  reached  the  middle  of  it  I  came  near  faint¬ 
ing  ;  a  shivering  went  through  me,  my  feet  shook  under  me, 
and  could  not  longer  carry  me.  The  mass  pressed  on  ;  I  was 


120 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


overwhelmed  with  a  trembling  sensation  ;  it  grew  blac<c  oefure 
my  eyes  ;  I  had  a  feeling  of  being  trampled  under  foot ;  but 
by  an  exertion  of  soul  and  body  I  kept  up :  they  were  terrible 
seconds,  that  dwell  in  my  thoughts  more  than  the  splendor 
and  magnificence  of  the  feast. 

Meanwhile  I  reached  the  other  side  of  the  bridge  and  felt 
much  better.  Blunck’s  studio  was  near  by,  and  from  here,  with 
the  Angelo  castle  in  front,  I  saw  to  the  end  the  grand  Giran- 
dola,  surpassing  all  the  fire-works  I  ever  before  had  seen.  The 
fire-works  at  the  July  feast  in  Paris  were  but  poor  in  com¬ 
parison  with  Rome’s  splendid  cascades  of  fire. 

Tn  the  Osterie  my  countrymen  drank  my  health,  bidding 
me  farewell,  and  sang  a  travelling  song.  Thorwaldsen  hugged 
me  and  said  that  we  should  see  each  other  again  in  Denmark 
or  in  Rome.  My  second  of  April  I  spent  at  Montefiascone. 
An  Italian  married  couple,  very  amiable  people,  were  my  trav¬ 
elling  companions.  The  young  wife  was  very  much  afraid  of 
robbers,  as  the  country  was  said  to  be  unsafe ;  the  burned 
tracts  of  woodland,  with  their  black  stumps  of  trees,  did  not 
enliven  the  scenery ;  the  mountain  roads  were  narrow,  with 
black  deep  abysses ;  and  now  there  rose  a  tempest  so  violent 
that  for  several  hours  we  were  compelled  to  take  shelter  in  a 
little  inn  at  Novella.  The  storm  raged,  the  rain  drove  down  ; 
the  whole  scene  was  like  that  of  a  robber-story,  but  the  rob¬ 
bers  were  wanting,  and  the  end  of  the  story  was  that  we 
reached  Siena,  and  later  also  Florence,  safe  and  sound.  Flor¬ 
ence  was  now  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine,  together  with  all 
that  it  possessed,  —  even  from  the  metal  pig  to  its  churches 
and  galleries. 

In  the  director  of  the  Cabinet  Liter  air e,  Wieusseux,  I  learned 
to  know  a  man  who,  sixteen  years  ago,  had  been  in  Denmark 
and  lived  there  in  the  house  of  the  authoress  Madame  Brun. 
He  knew  Oehlenschlager  and  Baggesen,  talked  of  them  and  of 
Copenhagen  and  its  life.  When  we  are  abroad  and  hear  peo¬ 
ple  talk  of  home,  we  feel  then  how  dear  it  is  to  us.  I  did 
not  feel  however  any  home-sickness,  and  had  not  felt  it  during 
my  whole  journey.  I  looked  anxiously  toward  the  time  of  re- 
aiming  home,  as  if  I  were  then  to  be  awakened  from  a  beau¬ 
tiful  dream  to  heavy  reality,  to  suffering  and  patience.  And 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  21 


now  my  face  was  turned  homeward.  Spring  went  with  me ; 
in  Florence  the  laurel-trees  were  in  bloom.  Spring  was  round 
about  me,  but  it  dared  not  breathe  into  my  soul.  I  went 
northward  over  the  mountains  to  Bologna.  Malibran  sung 
heie,  and  I  was  to  see  Raphael’s  “Saint  Cecilia,”  and  then 
again  by  Ferrara  to  Venice,  the  withered  lotus  of  the  sea. 

If  one  has  seen  Genoa  with  its  magnificent  palaces,  Rome 
with  its  monuments,  and  has  wandered  in  the  sunny,  laughing 
Naples,  Venice  will  only  be  a  step-child  ;  and  still  this  city 
is  so  peculiar,  so  different  from  all  other  cities  of  Italy,  that 
it  ought  to  be  seen,  but  before  the  others,  and  not  as  a  triste 
vale  at  the  departure  from  Italy.  Goethe  speaks  of  that  se¬ 
pulchral  spectacle,  the  Venetian  gondola.  It  is  a  swift,  swim¬ 
ming  mortuary  bier,  pitch-black  with  black  fringes,  black  tas 
sels,  and  black  curtains.  At  Fusina  we  went  on  board  such 
a  one,  and  passing  between  an  interminable  range  of  poles, 
through  muddy  water  and  clearer  water,  we  entered  the  si¬ 
lent  city.  Only  the  Place  of  St.  Mark  with  its  variegated 
church  of  Oriental  architecture,  and  the  wondrous  Doge  Palace 
with  its  dark  memories,  the  prison  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
were  lively  with  people.  Greeks  and  Turks  sat  and  smoked 
their  long  pipes,  doves  flew  by  hundreds  round  the  trophy 
poles,  from  which  waved  mighty  flags. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  on  the  wreck  of  a  spectral,  gi¬ 
gantic  ship,  especially  when  it  was  day-time.  In  the  evening, 
when  the  moon  shines,  the  whole  city  seems  to  rouse  ;  then 
the  palaces  stand  out  more  squarely  and  look  more  noble. 
Venetia,  the  queen  of  Adria,  that  in  the  day-time  is  a  dead 
swan  upon  the  muddy  water,  gets  then  life  and  beauty. 

A  scorpion  had  stung  my  hand,  and  this  made  my  stay  here 
painful  one.  All  the  veins  in  my  arm  swelled.  I  had  par¬ 
oxysms  of  fever,  but  fortunately  the  weather  was  cold,  the 
sting  not  \ery  venomous,  and  in  the  black,  sepulchral  gondola 
I  left  Venice  without  regret,  to  go  to  another  city  of  graves,  — 
that  where  the  Scaligers  repose,  and  where  is  the  tomb  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  —  the  city  of  Verona. 

My  countryman,  the  painter  Bendz,  born  like  myself  in 
Odense,  left  his  home  in  youth  and  freshness  ;  his  talent  was 
acknowledged,  he  had  a  faithful  bride,  and  hastened  joyfully 


122 


THE  STOTT  OF  MY  LIFE. 


to  Italy,  climbed  the  Alps,  saw  the  Canaan  of  art  lying  before 
him,  and  suddenly  died  in  Vicenza.  I  sought  his  grave,  but 
nobody  could  tell  me  where  it  was.  The  memory  of  this 
brother  from  the  same  native  town,  came  vividly  before  me  on 
this  spot.  His  lot  seemed  to  me  so  happy,  that  I  could  have 
wished  my  own  the  same !  my  mind  became  more  and  more 
depressed  as  I  ascended  the  Alps,  toward  the  North,  home¬ 
ward. 

I  travelled  in  company  with  a  young  Scot,  Mr.  Jameson 
from  Edinburgh  ;  he  found  that  the  Tyrol  Mountains  bore  a 
great  resemblance  to  the  heights  of  his  own  home,  and  tears 
Oame  into  his  eyes,  for  he  felt  home-sick  ;  I  did  not  know 
that  disease.  I  only  felt  an  increasing  depression  in  thinking 
of  all  I  was  to  meet  with,  anticipating  the  bitter  cup  I  certainly 
would  have  to  drink.  Besides,  I  was  sure  I  never  again 
should  see  this  beautiful  country  I  now  was  leaving. 

The  Alps  lay  behind  us,  and  the  Bavarian  table-land 
stretched  before  us.  The  last  of  May  I  arrived  at  Munich. 
I  took  a  room  in  the  house  of  an  honest  comb-maker  on 
Carl  Square.  I  had  no  acquaintances,  but  these  were  soon 
made.  In  the  street  I  immediately  met  with  my  countryman 
Birch,  who  married  Charlotte  Birch-Pfeiffer,  renowned  as  an 
authoress  and  actress.  She  was  at  that  time  directress  of  the 
City  Theatre  in  Zurich,  and  therefore  I  could  not  then  make 
her  acquaintance.  I  had  formerly  often  seen  Birch  in  Si- 
boni’s  house  ;  he  knew  me,  and  showed  me  much  attention 
and  kindness.  We  saw  each  other  often,  and  he  was  frank 
and  sociable. 

The  philosopher  Scheming  was  then  living  in  Munich.  I. 
had  heard  much  about  him  from  H.  C.  Orsted.  I  can  add 
another  kind  of  connection  too.  My  landlady  in  Copenhagen 
had  told  me  that  Schelling,  during  his  stay  there,  had  lived  in 
her  house,  and  that  the  bed  I  occupied  had  been  his.  I 
had  no  letters  of  recommendation,  nobody  who  could  intro¬ 
duce  me  to  him  ;  therefore  I  went  without  ceremony  to  his 
house,  announced  myself,  and  was  very  well  received  by  the 
old  man.  He  conversed  a  long  time  with  me  about  Italy ; 
I  did  not  speak  German  well,  one  Danish  idiom  followed 
another;  but  just  that  was  what  interested  him  most,  —  the. 


THE  STORY  01  MY  LIFE. 


123 

Danish  element  shone  through,  he  said  ;  it  seemed  to  him 
so  strange  and  yet  so  familiar.  He  invited  me  to  see  his 
family  and  talked  with  me  very  kindly.  Several  years  after¬ 
ward,  when  I  had  acquired  a  name  in  Germany,  we  met  in 
Berlin  as  old  friends. 

My  stay  at  Munich  was  very  pleasant,  but  the  days  pointed 
more  and  more  toward  my  real  home,  Copenhagen.  By  care¬ 
ful  economy  I  tried  to  extend  the  time  of  my  stay,  for  I  was 
afraid  that  once  home  I  should  grow  fast  there,  and  the  rolling 
seas  would  pass  over  me. 

From  letters  I  learned  how  entirely  I  had  been  given  up 
and  blotted  out  as  poet ;  the  “  Monthly  Journal  of  Litera¬ 
ture  ”  had  publicly  stated  this  as  a  plain  fact.  It  was  my 
“Collected  Poems,”  published  during  my  absence,  which  had 
separately  met  with  great  success,  and  the  ‘‘Twelve  Months 
of  the  Year,”  that  served  as  proof  of  my  intellectual  death.  A 
travelling  friend  brought  me  the  “  Monthly  Journal  ;  ”  of 
course  it  was  well  that  I  should  see  it  with  my  own  eyes. 

I  left  Munich.  In  the  coach  was  a  lively  man  who  was  go¬ 
ing  to  the  bath  of  Gastein  ;  at  the  city  gate  the  poet  Saphir 
came  and  shook  hands  with  him.  Mv  companion  was  very 
interesting  ;  the  theatre  was  soon  made  the  subject  of  our 
conversation  ;  we  spoke  of  the  last  representation  of  “  Gotz 
von  Berlichingen,”  where  Esslair  had  the  principal  part  and 
was  several  times  called  out  ;  but  he  did  not  please  me  ; 
I  told  my  companion  so,  and  said  that  I  liked  Mr.  Wesper- 
mann,  who  played  the  part  of  Selbitz ,  best  of  all.  “  I  thank 
you  for  the  compliment !  ”  exclaimed  the  stranger.  It  was 
Wespermann  himself ;  I  did  not  know  him  ;  my  joy  at  being 
in  company  with  that  able  artist  drew  me  nearer  to  him,  and 
the  journey  made  us  friends. 

We  reached  the  Austrian  frontier.  My  passport  from  Co¬ 
penhagen  was  in  French,  the  frontier  guard  looked  at  it,  and 
asked  for  my  name.  I  answered,  “  Hans  Christian  Ander¬ 
sen  !  ” 

That  name  is  not  in  your  passport,  your  name  is  Jean 
Chrdtien  Andersen ;  so  you  travel  under  another  name  than 
your  own  ?  ”  , 

Now  commenced  an  examination,  which  became  ven  amus 


124 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


!ng.  I,  who  never  carried  either  cigars  or  other  prohibited 
articles  with  me,  had  my  trunk  searched  through  and  through, 
and  I  myself  was  scrupulously  examined  ;  all  my  letters  from 
home  were  looked  through  ;  they  made  me  declare  on  oath 
whether  they  contained  anything  beside  family  affairs;  after 
that  they  asked  me  what  my  “  chapeau  bras  ”  was.  I  an¬ 
swered,  “A  hat  for  society.”  —  “What  kind  of  society?*1' 
asked  they,  —  “a  secret  society  ?  ”  My  ivy  wreath  from  the 
Christmas  Feast  in  Rome  seemed  very  suspicious  to  them. 
“  Have  you  been  in  Paris  ?  ”  they  again  asked.  “  Yes  !  ”  And 
now  they  let  me  know  that  all  was  as  it  ought  to  be  in 
Austria, that  they  were  not  going  to  have  revolutions,  and  were 
very  well  contented  with  their  Emperor  Franz.  I  assured 
them  that  I  was  of  the  same  mind,  and  that  they  might  be  en¬ 
tirely  at  rest ;  I  hated  revolutions,  and  was  a  tiptop  kind  of 
subject.  That  all  went  for  nothing  ;  I  was  more  severely 
searched  than  all  the  others,  and  the  only  reason  was  that  the 
officer  in  Copenhagen  had  translated  the  Danish  name  Hans 
Christian  by  Jean  Chretien. 

In  Salzburg,  near  my  lodging,  was  an  old  house  with 
figures  and  inscriptions  ;  it  had  belonged  to  Doctor  Theo¬ 
phrastus  Bombastus  Paracelsus,  who  died  there.  The  old 
serving-woman  in  the  inn  told  me  that  she  also  was  born  in 
•  that  house,  and  that  she  knew  about  Paracelsus  ;  that  he  was 
a  man  who  could  cure  the  disease  among  men  of  quality  called 
gout,  and  on  that  account  the  other  doctors  grew  angry  and 
gave  him  poison  ;  he  discovered  it,  and  was  skillful  enough  to 
know  how  to  drive  the  poison  out.  He  therefore  locked  him¬ 
self  in  the  house,  and  ordered  his  servant  not  to  open  the  door 
before  he  called  him  ;  but  the  servant  was  very  curious,  and 
opened  the  door  before  the  time,  when  his  master  had  not  got 
the  poison  higher  up  than  into  the  throat,  and  seeing  the  door 
open,  Paracelsus  fell  dead  -on  the  floor.  That  was  the  popu¬ 
lar  story  I  got.  Paracelsus  has  always  been  to  me  a  very 
romantic  and  attractive  personage,  and  no  doubt  could  be 
made  use  of  in  a  Danish  poem,  for  his  wandering  life  carried 
him  up  to  Denmark.  He  is  spoken  of  as  surgeon  in  the 
allied  army  there,  and  is  mentioned  during  the  reign  of 
Christian  II.  as  giving  Mother  Sigbrith  in  Copenhagen  a 


T1IE  STORY  OF  AIY  LIFE . 


125 

kind  of  physic  in  a  vial,  which  cracked  and  let  the  contents 
out  with  a  noise  like  a  clap  of  thunder.  Poor  Paracelsus  !  he 
was  called  a  quack,  but  was  a  genius  in  his  art  before  his 
time  :  but  every  one  who  goes  before  the  coach  of  Time  gets 
kicked  or  trampled  down  by  its  horses. 

When  one  is  in  Salzburg  one  must  also  see  Hallein,  go 
through  the  salt  works,  and  pass  over  the  cover  of  the  salt-  • 
boiling,  huge  iron  pan.  The  waterfall  at  Golling  foams  over 
the  blocks  of  stone,  but  I  have  forgotten  all  impressions  save 
that  made  by  the  smiles  of  a  child.  I  had  for  guide  a  little 
boy  who  possessed  in  a  singular  degree  the  seriousness  of 
an  old  man,  a  look  which  we  sometimes  perceive  among 
children ;  an  air  of  intelligence,  a  certain  seriousness,  was 
spread  over  the  little  fellow,  not  a  smile  was  seen  upon  his 
face.  Only  when  we  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  foaming,  rush¬ 
ing  waters,  which  resounded  in  the  air,  his  eyes  began  to  beam, 
and  the  little  chap  smiled  so  happily  and  said  proudly,  “  That 
is  Golling  Fall !  ”  The  waters  foam  and  foam  still ;  I  have 
forgotten  them,  but  not  the  smile  of  the  boy.  It  often  happens 
that  we  notice  and  retain  in  our  memory  some  little  thing 
about  places  we  see,  which  many  may  call  unessential  or  acci¬ 
dental.  The  magnificent  monastery  at  Molk  on  the  Danube, 
with  its  splendor  of  marble  and  its  magnificent  view,  has  only 
left  in  my  mind  one  permanent,  fresh  remembrance  —  that  of  a 
large,  black,  burnt  spot  on  the  floor.  It  was  caused  during  the 
war  in  1809  ;  the  Austrians  were  encamped  on  the  northern 
bank  of  the  Danube  :  Napoleon  had  taken  up  his  quarters  in 
the  monastery.  A  dispatch  which  in  a  fit  of  anger  he  had  set 
fire  to  and  thrown  away,  had  burnt  that  hole  in  the  floor. 

At  last  I  came  in  sight  of  the  steeple  of  St.  Stephen’s  Church, 
and  soon  I  stood  in  the  Imperial  City.  The  house  of  the 
Sonnenleitners  was  at  that  time  a  true  home  for  all  Danes. 
We  always  found  countrymen  here,  and  many  notabilities  used 
fo  meet  here  in  the  evening :  Captain  Tscherning,  the  doc¬ 
tors  Bendz  and  Thune,  the  Norwegian  Schweigaard.  I  did 
not  go  there  very  often,  as  the  theatre  had  more  attraction  for 
me.  The  Bourg  Theatre  was  excellent.  I  saw  Anschutz  as 
Gotz  mm  Bcrlichingen  ;  Madame  von  Weissenthurn  as  Madamt 
Herb  in  “The  Americans.”  What  a  play  it  was!  A 


126 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


young  girl,  Malhilde  Wildauer,  who  has  since  acquired  the 
name  of  an  artist,  made  her  first  appearance  on  the  stage  in 
these  days  as  Gurli  in  the  “  Indians  in  England.”  Several 
comedies  of  Kotzebue  were  given  here  in  a  very  excellent  way. 
Kotzebue  had  good  sense,  but  no  great  fancy ;  he  was  the 
Scribe  of  his  time  ;  he  could  write  unpoetical  pieces,  but  his 
*  good  sense  gave  them  all  admirable  dialogues. 

In  Hitzing  I  saw  and  heard  Strauss  ;  he  stood  there  in  the 
middle  of  his  orchestra  like  the  heart  in  that  waltz  organism  ; 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  melodies  poured  through  him  and 
escaped  out  of  all  his  members ;  his  eyes  flashed,  and  it  was 
easy  to  see  that  he  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  orchestra. 
Madame  von  Weissenthurn  had  her  villa  in  Hitzing,  and  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  this  interesting  lady.  I  have  since,  in 
“A  Poet’s  Bazaar,”  given  a  kind  of  silhouette  of  this  amiable 
and  gifted  lady.  Her  comedies,  “Which  is  the  Bride, ”and 
“  The  Estate  of  Sternberg,”  have  been  received  with  great  suc¬ 
cess  on  the  Danish  stage.  Our  younger  people,  I  suppose,  do 
not  know  Johanne  von  Weissenthurn  ;  she  was  daughter  of  an 
actor,  and  appeared  on  the  stage  while  quite  a  child.  In  the 
year  1809,  she  played  Phcedra  for  Napoleon  in  Schonbrunn, 
and  was  presented  by  him  with  a  gift  of  full  three  thousand 
francs.  She  wrote  on  a  wager  in  eight  days,  when  twenty-five 
years  old,  the  drama  “  Die  Drusen  ”  ;  since  that  she  has  writ¬ 
ten  more  than  sixty  dramatic  pieces  ;  and  after  forty  years  ac¬ 
tivity  the  Emperor  Franz  bestowed  upon  her  the  “  golden  civil- 
honor  medal,”  which  had  not  been  given  to  any  actress  before, 
and  which  procured  her  the  Prussian  golden  medal  for  arts 
and  sciences.  She  left  the  theatre  in  1841,  and  died  in  Hit¬ 
zing  the  18th  of  May,  1847.  Her  comedies  are  published  in 
fourteen  volumes.  I  spoke  for  the  first  time  with  her  at  her 
villa  in  Hitzing  ;  she  was  a  great  admirer  of  Oehlenschla^er. 
“  The  great  one  ”  she  always  called  him,  whom  she  had  learnt 
to  know  and  estimate,  when  he  as  a  young  man  was  in  Vienna. 
She  liked  to  listen  to  my  narratives  from  Italy,  and  said  *hat 
uy  words  gave  her  a  clear  perception  of  that  country,  so  tha' 
she  seemed  to  be  there  with  me. 

In  Sonnenleitner’s  house  I  learned  to  know  Mr.  Grillparzei 
who  had  written  “The  Ancestress,”  and  “The  Golden  Fleece. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  127 

In  true  Viennese  fashion  he  shook  my  hand  and  greeted  me 
is  a  poet. 

I  saw  Castelli  very  often.  He  is  undoubtedly  the  type  of  a 
true  Viennese,  and  is  in  possession  of  all  the  excellent  and  pe 
culiar  qualities  of  such  a  one,  —  namely,  good-nature,  brilliant 
humor,  faithfulness  and  devotion  to  his  emperor.  “The  good 
Franz,”  said  he,  “  I  have  written  a  petition  to  him  in  verse, 
and  begged  him  when  we  Vienneses  meet  him  and  salute  him 
not  to  answer  our  salutations  by  taking  off  his  hat  in  this  cold 
weather  !  ”  I  saw  all  his  bijouterie  —  his  collections  of  snuff¬ 
boxes  ;  one  of  them,  in  the  shape  of  a  snail,  had  belonged  to 
Voltaire  !  “  Bow  and  kiss  it,”  said  he. 

In  my  “Only  a  Fiddler,”  where  Naomi  appears  in  Vienna, 
I  have  made  Castelli  one  of  the  actors,  and  the  verse  which 
stands  at  the  head  of  the  chapter  was  written  for  me  by  the 
poet  before  we  separated. 

After  spending  a  month  in  Vienna  I  commenced  my  journey 
homeward  by  way  of  Prague,  enjoying  “the  poetry  of  travel¬ 
ling  life  ”  as  people  call  it.  A  crowd  of  people  were  squeezed 
together,  the  coach  jerked  and  rattled,  but  this  brought  out 
some  droll  characters  that  helped  to  keep  up  the  good  humor 
in  the  coach.  Among  others  we  had  an  old  gentleman  who 
was  displeased  with  everything ;  he  had  been  the  victim  of 
extortion,  and  was  continually  calculating  how  much  money  he 
had  spent,  and  he  found  that  it  was  always  too  much  ;  first  it 
was  for  a  cup  of  coffee  that  was  not  worth  the  money,  then 
he  was  vexed  by  the  degeneracy  of  the  young  people  nowa¬ 
days,  who  had  too  much  to  do  with  everything,  even  with  the 
fate  of  the  world.  A  dirty  Jew  who  was  seated  at  his  side, 
prattled  all  the  time  and  told  ten  times  over  his  journey  to 
Ragusa  in  Dalmatia  !  he  would  not,  he  said,  be  a  king,  —  that 
was  too  much  ;  but  he  would  like  to  be  a  king’s  valet,  like 
one  he  had  known,  who  had  grown  so  fleshy  that  he  could 
not  walk,  and  was  obliged  to  have  a  valet  for  himself.  He 
was  nasty  Irom  head  to  foot,  and  yet  he  was  continually  talk¬ 
ing  of  cleanliness.  He  was  indignant  at  hearing  that  in 
Hungary  they  used  to  heat  the  ovens  with  cow’s  dung !  he 
served  up  old  anecdotes  to  us.  Suddenly  he  became  ab¬ 
sorbed  in  thought,  drew  a  paper  out  of  his  pocket,  rolled  hia 


128 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


eyes  about,  and  wrote.  He  had  ideas  !  he  said,  and  asked  me 
to  read  what  he  had  written  down. 

There  were  no  reserved  seats  in  the  coach,  and  we  had  to 
agree  the  best  way  we  could  ;  but  the  two  best  places  were  aftei 
all  taken  away  from  us  by  two  new  travellers,  who  stepped  in 
at  Iglau  while  we,  weary  and  hungry,  went  to  the  supper- 
table.  They  were  a  young  woman  with  her  husband  ;  he  was 
already  asleep  when  we  reentered  the  coach  ;  she  was  awake 
enough  for  both  of  them,  and  loquacity  itself ;  she  spoke  of 
art  and  literature,  of  refined  education,  of  reading  a  poet  and 
comprehending  him,  of  music  and  plastic  art,  of  Calderon  and 
Mendelssohn.  Sometimes  she  stopped,  and  sighed  at  her 
husband,  who  leaned  his  head  upon  her :  “  Raise  your  angelic 
head,  it  crushes  my  bosom  !  ”  said  she.  And  now  she  talked 
about  her  father’s  library,  and  of  the  meeting  she  was  again  to 
have  with  him  ;  and  when  I  asked  her  of  the  Bohemian  litera¬ 
ture,  she  was  intimately  acquainted  with  all  the  authors  of  note 
in  the  country,  -  they  came  to  her  father’s  house,  who  had  in 
his  library  a  complete  collection  of  books  belonging  to  modern 
literature,  etc.  When  day  broke  I  perceived  that  she  and  her 
husband  were  a  fair  Jewish  couple  ;  he  awoke,  drank  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  fell  asleep  again,  leaned  his  head  against  his  wife, 
opened  his  mouth  only  once  to  utter  a  wornout  witticism,  and 
so  slept  again  —  that  angel  ! 

She  wanted  to  know  about  us  all,  what  our  positions  and 
conditions  were,  and  learning  that  I  was  an  author,  she  took 
much  interest  in  me.  When  we  gave  our  names  at  the  gates 
of  Prague,  an  old  deaf  gentleman  said  that  his  name  was 
“  Professor  Zimmermann  !  ”  “  Zimmermann  !  ”  she  cried  out ; 

“  Zimmermann’s  ‘Solitude!’  Are  you  Zimmermann  ?  ”  She 
did  not  know  that  the  author  she  meant  had  been  dead  a  lon£ 
time.  The  deaf  gentleman  repeated  his  name,  and  now  she 
burst  out  into  lamentations  that  only  at  the  hour  of  separation 
she  had  learned  with  whom  she  had  been  travelling. 

I  had  told  her  that  I  meant  to  go  early  next  morning  tc 
Dresden  ;  she  said  that  she  was  very  sorry  for  it,  because  she 
would  have  invited  me  to  see  her  father  and  his  library,  and 
perhaps,  meet  with  people  of  sympathetic  mind  !  “  We  live  in 
the  largest  house  of  the  place  !  ”  She  pointed  it  out  to  me. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LITE. 


129 


and  I  saw  that  both  she  and  her  husband  entered  it.  When 
they  took  leave,  the  husband  gave  me  his  card.  The  next 
morning  I  decided  to  stay  two  days  in  Prague,  so  I  could 
pay  my  travelling  companions  a  visit,  and  take  a  view  of  th< 
library  witli  its  Bohemian  literature. 

I  went  to  the  large  house  where  I  had  seen  the  couple, 
enter.  In  the  first  story  nobody  knew  anything  of  the  family, 
nor  in  the  second  story  ;  mounting  the  third,  I  mentioned  the 
great  library  that  was  said  to  be  there  !  no,  nobody  knew  of 
it.  I  reached  the  fourth  story,  but  neither  here  was  any  in¬ 
formation  to  be  had,  and  they  said  that  no  other  families  lived 
in  the  house  except  those  I  had  seen  ;  there  lived,  to  be  sure, 
an  old  Jew  in  a  couple  of  garrets  in  the  top  of  the  house,  but 
they  were  sure  that  I  could  not  mean  him.  Nevertheless  I 
mounted  the  stairs,  —  the  walls  to  the  staircase  consisting  of 
rough  boards  ;  there  was  a  low  door  at  which  I  knocked.  An 
old  man  dressed  in  a  dirty  night-gown  opened  it,  and  I  stepped 
into  a  low-studded  room  ;  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood  a 
large  clothes-basket  filled  with  books.  “  It  is  not  possible 
that  family  lives  here  !  ”  said  I. 

“  My  God  !  ”  cried  a  female  voice  from  a  little  side-chamber. 
I  looked  in  that  direction  and  beheld  my  travelling  lady  in 
negligee ,  balancing  her  fine,  black  silk  travelling  gown  over 
her  head  in  order  to  get  it  on,  and  in  the  opposite  chamber 
her  husband  gaped  in  a  sleepy  fashion,  drowsily  nodding  his 
“  angel  head.”  I  stood  amazed :  the  lady  stepped  in,  the 
dress  open  in  the  back,  an  untied  bonnet  on  the  head,  and  her 
cheeks  blushing  with  surprise.  “Von  Andersen!”  said  she, 
and  uttered  an  excuse.  All  was  out  of  order  here,  and  her 
father’s  library  —  she  pointed  at  the  clothes-basket.  All  the 
casting  in  the  travelling  coach  was  reduced  to  a  garret  and  a 
bag  filled  with  books  ! 

From  Prague  I  went  by  Toeplitz  and  Dresden  home  to  Den¬ 
mark.  With  mingled  feelings  in  my  heart  I  went  ashore,  and 
not  all  the  tears  I  shed  were  tears  of  joy.  But  God  was  with 
me.  I  had  no  thought  or  affection  for  Germany ;  my  heart  was 
attached  to  Italy,  which  was  a  paradise  lost  to  me,  where  I 
should  never  again  go.  With  dread  and  anxiety  I  looked 
toward  the  future  at  home. 

Q 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


13° 

Italy,  with  its  scenery  and  the  life  of  its  people,  occupied 
my  soul,  and  toward  this  land  I  felt  a  yearning.  My  earlier 
life  and  what  I  had  now  seen,  blended  themselves  together 
into  an  image  —  into  poetry,  which  I  was  compelled  to  write 
down,  although  I  was  convinced  that  it  would  occasion  me 
more  trouble  than  joy,  if  my  necessities  at  home  should 
oblige  me  to  print  it.  I  had  already  in  Rome  written  the  first 
chapter,  and  others  afterward  in  Munich.  It  was  my  novel 
of  “The  Improvisatore.”  In  a  letter  I  received  in  Rome,  J. 
L.  Heiberg  wrote  that  he  considered  me  as  a  kind  of  an  im- 
provisatore,  and  that  word  was  the  spark  which  gave  my  new 
poem  its  name. 

At  one  of  my  first  visits  to  the  theatre  at  Odense,  as  a  little 
boy,  where,  as  I  have  already  mentioned,  the  representations 
were  given  in  the  German  language,  I  saw  the  “  Donauweib- 
chen,”  and  the  public  applauded  the  actress  of  the  principal 
part.  Homage  was  paid  to  her,  and  she  was  honored  ;  and  I 
vividly  remember  thinking  how  happy  she  must  be.  Many 
years  afterward,  when,  as  a  student,  I  visited  Odense,  I  saw, 
in  one  of  the  chambers  of  the  hospital  where  the  poor  widows 
lived,  and  where  one  bed  stood  by  another,  a  female  portrait 
hanging  over  one  bed  in  a  gilt  frame.  It  was  Lessing’s 
“  Emelia  Galotti,”  and  represented  her  as  pulling  the  rose  to 
pieces  ;  but  the  picture  was  a  portrait.  It  appeared  singular 
in  contrast  with  the  poverty  by  which  it  was  surrounded. 

“  Whom  does  it  represent  ?  ’’  asked  I. 

“O!  ”  sail  one  of  the  old  women,  “it  is  the  face  of  the 
German  lady,  —  the  poor  lady  who  was  once  an  actress  !  ” 
And  then  1  saw  a  little  delicate  woman,  whose  face  was  cov¬ 
ered  with  wrinkles,  and  in  an  old  silk  gown  that  once  had 
been  black.  That  was  the  once  celebrated  singer,  who,  as  the 
Donauweibche/i,  had  been  applauded  by  every  one.  This 
circumstance  made  an  indelible  impression  upon  me,  and 
often  occurred  to  my  mind. 

In  Naples  I  heard  Malibran  for  the  first  time.  Her  sing 
ing  and  acting  surpassed  anything  which  I  had  hitherto  either 
heard  or  seen  ;  and  yet  I  thought  the  while  of  the  misera 
bly  poor  singer  in  the  hospital  of  Odense :  the  two  figures 
blended  into  the  Anmmciata  of  the  novel.  Italy  was  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  131 

background  for  that  which  had  been  experienced  and  that 
which  was  imagined. 

My  journey  was  ended.  It  was  in  August  of  1834  that  I 
returned  to  Denmark.  I  wrote  the  first  part  of  the  book  at 
Ingemann’s.  in  Sorb,  in  a  little  chamber  in  the  roof,  among 
fragrant  lime-trees.  I  finished  it  in  Copenhagen. 

“  To  the  Conference  Councilor  Collin  and  to  his  noble 
wife,  in  whom  I  found  parents,  whose  children  were  brethren 
and  sisters  to  me,  whose  house  was  my  home,  do  I  here  pre¬ 
sent  the  best  of  which  I  am  possessed.”  So  ran  the  dedi¬ 
cation. 

The  book  was  read,  the  edition  sold,  and  another  one 
printed.  The  critics  were  silent,  the  newspapers  said  nothing, 
but  I  heard  in  roundabout  ways  that  there  was  an  interest 
felt  in  my  production,  and  that  many  were  much  pleased  with 
it.  At  length  the  poet  Carl  Bagger  wrote  a  notice  in  the 
u  Sunday  Times,”  of  which  he  was  editor,  that  began  thus  :  — 

“ 1  The  poet  Andersen  does  not  write  now  as  well  as  formerly ; 
he  is  exhausted  :  that  I  have  for  a  long  time  expected.’  In 
this  fashion  the  poet  is  spoken  of  here  and  there  in  some  of 
the  aristocratic  circles,  perhaps  in  the  very  place  where  on  his 
first  appearance  he  was  petted  and  almost  idolized.  But  that 
he  is  not  exhausted,  and  that  he  now,  on  the  contrary,  has 
swung  himself  into  a  position  altogether  unknown  to  him  be¬ 
fore,  he  has  by  his  ‘  Improvisatore  ’  shown  in  a  most  brilliant 
way.” 

People  laugh  now  at  me,  bu’;  I  say  frankly  I  wept  aloud, 
I  cried  for  very  gladness,  and  was  moved  to  thankfulness  to¬ 
ward  God  and  man. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


MANY  who  formerly  had  been  my  enemies,  now  changed 
their  opinion  ;  and  among  these  one  became  my  friend, 
who,  I  hope,  will  remain  so  through  the  whole  of  my  life. 
That  was  Hauch  the  poet,  —  one  of  the  noblest  characters  with 
whom  I  am  acquainted.  He  had  returned  home  from  Italy 
after  a  residence  of  several  years  abroad,  just  at  the  same  time 
when  Heiberg’s  vaudevilles  were  intoxicating  the  inhabitants 
of  Copenhagen,  and  when  my  “Journey  on  Foot”  was  making 
me  a  little  known.  He  commenced  a  controversy  with  Hei¬ 
berg,  and  somewhat  scoffed  at  me.  Nobody  called  his  atten¬ 
tion  to  my  better  lyrical  writings ;  I  was  described  to  him  as 
a  spoiled,  petulant  child  of  fortune.  He  now  read  my  “  Impro¬ 
visator, ”  and  feeling  that  there  was  something  good  in  me,  his 
noble  character  evinced  itself  by  his  writing  a  cordial  letter  to 
me,  in  which  he  said  that  he  had  done  me  an  injustice,  and 
offered  me  now  the  hand  of  reconciliation.  From  that  time 
we  became  friends.  He  used  his  influence  for  me  with  the 
utmost  zeal,  and  has  watched  my  onward  career  with  heartfelt 
friendship.  But  so  little  able  have  many  people  been  to 
understand  what  is  excellent  in  him  or  the  noble  connection 
of  heart  between  us  two,  that  not  long  since,  when  he  wrote 
a  long  novel,  and  drew  in  it  the  caricature  of  a  poet,  whose 
vanity  ended  in  insanity,  the  people  in  Denmark  discovered 
that  he  had  treated  me  with  the  greatest  injustice,  because  he 
had  described  in  it  my  weakness.  People  must  not  believe 
that  this  was  the  assertion  of  one  single  person,  or  a  misap¬ 
prehension  of  my  character  ;  no  :  and  Hauch  felt  himself  com¬ 
pelled  to  write  a  treatise  upon  me  as  a  poet,  that  he  might 
show  what  a  different  place  he  assigned  to  me. 

But  to  return  to  “  The  Improvisatore.”  This  book  raised  my 
sunken  fortunes,  collected  my  friends  again  around  me,  nay, 
even  obtained  for  me  new  ones.  For  the  first  time  I  felt  that 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


*33 


1  had  obtained  a  due  acknowledgment.  The  book  was  trans¬ 
lated  into  German  by  Kruse,  with  a  long  title,  “  Jugendleben 
und  Traume  eines  italianischen  Dichter’s.”  I  objected  to  the 
title  ;  but  he  declared  that  it  was  necessary  in  order  to  attract 
attention  to  the  book. 

Bagger  had,  as  already  stated,  been  the  first  to  pass  judg¬ 
ment  on  the  work  ;  after  an  interval  of  some  time  a  second 
critique  made  its  appearance,  more  courteous,  it  is  true,  than 
I  was  accustomed  to,  but  still  passing  lightly  over  the  best 
things  in  the  book,  and  dwelling  on  its  deficiencies,  and  on  the 
number  of  incorrectly  written  Italian  words.  And  as  Nico¬ 
lai’s  well-known  book,  “  Italy  as  it  really  is,”  came  out  just 
then,  people  universally  said,  “  Now  we  shall  be  able  to  see 
what  it  is  about  which  Andersen  has  written,  for  from  Nicolai 
a  true  idea  of  Italy  will  be  obtained  for  the  first  time.” 

I  presented  my  book  to  Christian  VIII.,  at  that  time  Prince 
Christian.  In  the  antechamber  I  met  with  one  of  our  lesser 
poets,  who  is  in  possession  of  a  high  rank  in  the  state  calen¬ 
dar  ;  he  was  so  condescending  as  to  speak  to  me.  Well, 
we  exercised  the  same  trade,  we  were  both  poets,  and  now  he 
delivered  a  little  lecture  for  my  benefit  to  a  high  personage 
present  on  the  word  “  Collosseum.”  He  had  seen  that  word 
spelled  by  Byron  “  Coliseum,”  —  that  was  terrible  !  The  same 
blunder  kept  recurring,  and  made  one  forget  what  there  might 
be  of  good  in  the  book.  The  lecture  was  delivered  in  a  loud 
voice  for  the  benefit  of  the  whole  assemblv.  I  tried  to  demon- 

j 

strate  that  I  had  written  it  in  exactly  the  right  way  and  Byron 
not ;  the  noble  gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled, 
handed  me  my  book,  and  regretted  “  the  bad  misprint  in  that 
beautifully  bound  book  !  ”  * 

The  “  Monthly  Review  of  Literature  ”  noticed  many  little 
now  forgotten  pamphlets  and  comedies,  but  did  not  deign  to 
bestow  on  “  The  Improvisatore  ”  a  single  word,  perhaps 
because  it  already  had  a  great  public  ;  a  second  edition  of 
the  book  was  published.  Only  when  I  had  a  firm  footing 
and  wrote  my  next  novel,  “  O.  T.,”  —  it  was  in  the  year  1837, 
—  was  “  The  Improvisatore  ”  mentioned  by  the  “  Monthly 
Review :  ”  then  how  I  was  scolded  and  reproved  !  But  this  is 
not  the  place  to  speak  of  that. 


134 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


It  was  from  Germany  that  there  came  the  first  decided  ao 
knowledgment  of  the  merits  of  my  work,  or  rather,  perhaps, 
its  over-estimation.  I  bow  myself  in  joyful  gratitude,  like  a 
sick  man  toward  the  sunshine,  when  my  heart  is  grateful.  I 
am  not,  as  the  Danish  “  Monthly  Review,”  in  its  critique  of 
“  The  Improvisatore,”  condescended  to  assert,  an  unthankful 
man,  who  exhibits  in  his  work  a  want  of  gratitude  toward  his 
benefactors.  I  was  indeed  myself  poor  Antonio,  who  sighed 
under  the  burden  which  I  had  to  bear,  —  I,  the  poor  lad  who 
ate  the  bread  of  charity.  From  Sweden  also,  later,  resounded 
my  praise,  and  the  Swedish  newspapers  contained  articles  in 
praise  of  this  work,  which  within  the  last  two  years  has  been 
received  with  equal  warmth  in  England,  —  where  Mary 
Howitt,  the  poetess,  has  translated  it  into  English.  Every¬ 
where  abroad  was  heard  the  loudest  acknowledgment  of  its 
excellence. 

“  This  book  is  in  romance  what  ‘  Childe  Harold  ’  is  in 
poetry,”  —  so  it  was  criticised  in  England;  and  when,  thirteen 
years  after,  I  came  for  the  first  time  to  London,  I  heard  of 
a  generous  criticism  in  the  “  Foreign  Review,”  attributed  to 
the  son-in-law  of  Walter  Scott,  the  able  and  critical  Lockhart. 
I  did  not  know  anything  about  it  ;  I  could  not  at  that  time 
read  English ;  and  although  it  appeared  in  one  of  the  most 
read  and  best  known  reviews  that  come  to  Copenhagen,  it 
was  not  mentioned  in  any  Danish  newspaper. 

In  North  America  also  some  English  translations  were  after¬ 
ward  published,  and  in  1844  there  followed  in  St.  Petersburg  a 
Russian,  translated  from  the  Swedish,  and  another  translation 
into  Bohemian  was  also  made.  The  book  was  warmly  received 
in  Holland,  and  the  well  known  monthly  “  De  Tijd  ”  contained 
a  very  complimentary  critique  of  it. 

In  1847  it  was  published  in  French,  translated  by  Madame 
Lebrun,  and  was  very  favorably  criticised  ;  its  purity  was 
especially  taken  notice  of. 

There  are  in  Germany  seven  or  eight  different  editions  of 
this  romance,  with  various  imprints.  I  must  furthermore  refer 
to  the  well  known  Hitzig’s  edition  of  Chamisso’s  works,  in 
which  the  poet  expresses  his  delight  at  my  book,  and  ranks  it 
higher  than  such  works  as  “  Notre  Dame  de  Paris,”  “  La 
Salamandre,”  etc. 


THE  STOR  Y  OF  MY  LIFE . 


135 

Then  and  during  the  years  following,  it  was  from  without, 
so  to  speak,  that  the  most  hearty  recognition  came,  and  kept 
me  up  in  spirit.  If  Denmark  really  had  a  poet  in  me,  then 
no  one  at  home  took  any  heed  to  my  need  of  nourishment. 
While  people  frequently  set  out  carefully  in  the  hot  house 
some  little  blade  of  what  they  believe  may  come  to  have  some 
sort  of  value,  almost  everyone  has  done,  as  it  were,  everything 
to  prevent  my  growing.  But  our  Lord  willed  it  thus  for  my 
development,  and  therefore  He  sent  the  sun’s  rays  from  with¬ 
out,  and  let  what  I  had  written  find  its  own  way. 

There  exists  in  the  public  a  power  which  is  stronger  than 
all  the  critics  and  cliques.  I  felt  that  at  home  I  stood  on 
firmer  ground,  and  my  spirit  again  had  moments  in  which  it 
raised  its  wings  for  flight. 

A  few  months  only  after  the  publication  of  “  The  Improvisa¬ 
tor  ”  I  brought  out  the  first  part  of  my  “  Wonder  Stories,”  but 

» 

the  critics  would  not  vouchsafe  to  me  any  encouragement ;  they 
could  not  get  away  from  their  old  preconceived  notions.  The 
“  Monthly  Review  ”  never  deigned  to  mention  them  at  all,  and 
in  “  Dannora,”  another  critical  journal,  I  was  advised  not  to 
waste  my  time  in  writing  wonder  stories.  I  lacked  the  usual 
form  of  that  kind  of  poetry ;  I  would  not  study  models,  said 
they  —  and  so  I  gave  up  writing  them  ;  and  in  this  alternation 
of  feeling  between  gayety  and  ill-humor  I  wrote  my  next 
novel,  “  O.  T.”  I  felt  just  at  the  time  a  strong  mental  im¬ 
pulse  to  write,  and  I  believed  that  I  had  found  my  true  ele¬ 
ment  in  novel-writing. 

There  were  published  successively  “  The  Improvisatore  ”  in 
183 5,  “  O.  T.  ”  in  1836,  and  “  Only  a  Fiddler  ”  in  1837.  Many 
liked  my  “  O.  T.,”  especially  H.  C.  Orsted,  who  had  a  great 
appreciation  of  humor.  He  encouraged  me  to  continue  in 
this  direction,  and  from  him  and  his  family  I  met  with  the 
kindest  acknowledgments. 

At  Sibbern’s,  with  whom  I  now  had  a  personal  acquaintance, 

I  read  “  O.  T.”  Poul  Moller,  who  had  just  arrived  from 
Norway,  and  was  no  admirer  of  my  “Journey  on  Foot  to 
Amack,”  was  present  at  one  of  my  evening  readings,  and 
listened  with  great  interest.  The  passages  concerning  Jut* 
and.  the  heath,  and  the  Wes'  ern  Sea  pleased  him  especially. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


136 

and  he  praised  them  warmly.  Some  translations  of  “  0  T/’ 
into  German  were  afterward  again  translated  into  Swedish, 
Dutch,  and  English.  “  O.  T.”  was  read  and  again  read,  the 
book  had  its  partisans,  but  the  newspaper  and  journal  critics 
did  not  show  me  any  encouragement ;  they  forgot  that  with 
years  the  boy  becomes  a  man,  and  that  people  may  acquire 
knowledge  in  other  than  the  ordinary  ways. 

Many  who  had  perhaps  never  read  my  last  greater  works, 
were  the  most  severe  judges,  but  not  quite  so  honest  as 
Heiberg,  who,  when  I  asked  him  if  he  had  read  these  novels, 
answered  me  jokingly,  “  I  never  read  great  books  !  ” 

The  year  after  (1837)  appeared  my  romance,  “Only  a  Fid¬ 
dler,”  a  spiritual  blossom  sprung  out  of  the  terrible  struggle 
that  went  on  in  me  between  my  poet  nature  and  my  hard 
surroundings.  Yet  it  was  a  step  in  advance.  I  understood  my¬ 
self  and  the  world  better,  but  I  was  ready  to  give  up  expect 
ing  to  receive  any  kind  of  true  recognition  of  that  which  God 
had  bestowed  upon  me.  In  another  world  it  might  be  cleared 
up  —  that  was  my  faith.  If  “The  Improvisatore  ”  was  a  real 
improvisatore,  “  Only  a  Fiddler  ”  was  then  to  be  understood 
as  struggle  and  suffering:  this  production  was  carefully 
wrought,  and,  looked  at  from  without,  it  was  conceived  and 
executed  with  the  greatest  simplicity.  The  opposition  that 
had  stirred  in  me  against  injustice,  folly,  and  the  stupidity 
and  hardness  of  the  public,  found  vent  in  the  characters  of 
Naomi,  Ladislaus,  and  the  godfather  in  Hollow  Lane. 

This  book  also  made  its  way  at  home,  but  no  word  of  thanks 
or  encouragement  was  heard  ;  the  critics  only  granted  that  I 
was  very  fortunate  in  trusting  to  my  instinct, — an  expression 
applied  to  animals,  but  in  the  human  world,  in  the  world  of 
poetry,  it  is  called  genius  ;  for  me  instinct  was  good  enough. 
There  was  a  constant  depreciation  of  all  that  was  good  in  me. 
A  single  person  of  distinction  told  me  once  that  I  was  treated 
very  hardly  and  unjustly,  but  nobody  stepped  forward  to  de¬ 
nounce  it. 

The  novel  “  Only  a  Fiddler  ”  made  a  strong  impression  for 
a  short  time  on  one  of  our  country’s  young  and  highly  gifted 
men,  Soren  Kierkegaard.  Meeting  him  in  the  street,  he  told 
me  that  he  would  write  a  review  of  my  book,  and  that  I  should 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


137 


be  more  satisfied  with  that  than  I  had  been  with  the  earlier, 
because,  he  said,  they  had  misunderstood  me !  A  long  time 
elapsed,  then  he  read  the  book  again,  and  the  first  good  im¬ 
pression  of  it  was  effaced.  1  must  almost  believe  that  the 
more  seriously  he  examined  the  story,  the  more  faults  he  found  ; 
and  when  the  critique  appeared,  it  did  not  please  me  at  all. 
It  came  out  as  a  whole  book,  the  first,  I  believe,  that  Kierke¬ 
gaard  has  written  ;  and  because  of  the  Hegelian  heaviness  in 
the  expression,  it  was  very  difficult  to  read,  and  people  said  in 
fun  that  only  Kierkegaard  and  Andersen  had  read  it  through. 
I  learned  from  it  that  I  was  no  poet,  but  a  poetical  figure  that 
had  escaped  from  my  group,  in  which  my  place  would  be  taken 
by  some  future  poet  or  be  used  by  him  as  a  figure  in  a  poem, 
and  that  thus  my  supplement  would  be  created  !  Since  that 
time  I  have  had  a  better  understanding  with  this  author,  who 
has  always  met  me  with  kindness  and  discernment.  That 
which  contributed  likewise  to  place  this  book  in  the  shade 
was  the  circumstance  of  Heiberg  having  at  that  time  pub¬ 
lished  his  “  Every-day  Stories,”  which  were  written  in  ex¬ 
cellent  language,  and  with  good  taste  and  truth.  Their  own 
merits,  and  the  recommendation  of  their  being  Heiberg’s,  who 
was  the  beaming  star  of  literature,  placed  them  in  the  highest 
rank. 

I  had,  however,  advanced  so  far  that  there  no  longer  existed 
any  doubt  as  to  my  poetical  ability,  which  people  had  wholly 
denied  to  me  before  my  journey  to  Italy.  Still  not  a  single 
Danish  critic  had  spoken  of  the  characteristics  which  are 
peculiar  to  my  novels.  It  was  not  until  my  works  appeared 
in  Swedish  that  this  was  done,  and  then  several  Swedish 
journals  went  profoundly  into  the  subject,  and  analyzed  my 
works  with  good  and  honorable  intentions.  The  case  was  the 
same  in  Germany ;  and  from  this  country,  too,  my  heart  was 
strengthened  to  proceed.  L  was  not  until  last  year  that  in 
Denmark  a  man  of  influence,  Hauch  the  poet,  spoke  of  the 
novels  in  his  already  mentioned  treatise,  and  with  a  few  touches 
brought  their  characteristics  prominently  forward. 

“The  principal  thing,”  says  he,  “in  Andersen’s  best  and 
most  elaborate  works,  in  those  whicn  are  distinguished  for  the 
richest  fancy,  the  deepest  feeling,  the  most  lively  poetic  spirit, 


1 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


138 

is  of  talei: t,  or  at  least  of  a  noble  nature,  which  will  struggle 
its  way  out  of  narrow  and  depressing  circumstances.  This  is 
the  case  with  his  three  novels,  and  with  this  purpose  in  view 
it  is  really  an  important  state  of  existence  which  he  describes 
- —  an  inner  world,  which  no  one  understands  better  than  he, 
who  has  himself  drained  out  of  the  bitter  cup  of  suffering  and 
renunciation  painful  and  deep  feelings,  which  are  closely  re* 
lated  to  those  of  his  own  experience,  and  from  which  Memory, 
who,  according  to  the  old  significant  myth,  is  the  mother  of 
the  Muses,  met  him  hand  in  hand  with  them.  That  which  he, 
in  these  his  works,  relates  to  the  world,  deserves  assuredly  to 
be  listened  to  with  attention  ;  because,  at  the  same  time  that 
it  may  be  only  the  most  secret  inward  life  of  the  individual, 
yet  it  is  also  the  common  lot  of  men  of  talent  and  genius,  at 
least  when  these  are  in  needy  circumstances,  as  is  the  case  of 
those  who  are  here  placed  before  our  eyes.  In  so  far  as  in 
his  ‘  Improvisatore,’  in  ‘O.  T.,’  and  in  ‘Only  a  Fiddler,’ he 
represents  not  only  himself,  in  his  own  separate  individuality, 
but  at  the  same  time  the  momentous  combat  which  so  many 
have  to  pass  through,  and  which  he  understands  so  well,  be¬ 
cause  in  it  his  own  life  has  developed  itself ;  therefore  in  no 
instance  can  he  be  said  to  present  to  the  reader  what  belongs 
to  the  world  of  illusion,  but  only  that  which  bears  witness  to 
truth,  and  which,  as  is  the  case  with  all  such  testimony,  has  fl 
universal  and  enduring  wrorth. 

“And  still  more  than  this,  Andersen  is  not  only  the  de 
fender  of  talent  and  genius,  but,  at  the  same  time,  of  ever 
human  'heart  which  is  unkindly  and  unjustly  treated.  And 
whilst  he  himself  has  so  painfully  suffered  in  that  deep  com 
bat  in  which  the  Laocoon  snakes  seize  upon  the  outstretched 
hand,  —  whilst  he  himself  has  been  compelled  to  drink  from 
that  wormwood-steeped  bowl  which  the  cold-blooded  and  arro 
gant  world  so  constantly  offers  to  those  who  are  in  depressed 
circumstances,  he  is  fully  capable  of  giving  to  his  delineations 
in  this  respect  a  truth  and  an  earnestness,  nay,  even  a  tragic 
and  a  pain-awakening  pathos,  that  rarely  fails  of  producing  its 
effect  on  the  sympathizing  human  heart.  Who  can  read  that 
scene  in  his  ‘  Only  a  Fiddler,’  in  which  the  ‘  high-bred  hound, 
as  the  poet  expresses  it,  turned  away  with  disgust  from  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


139 


broken  victuals  which  the  poor  youth  received  as  alms,  with¬ 
out  recognizing,  at  the  same  time,  that  this  is  no  game  in 
which  vanity  seeks  for  a  triumph,  but  that  it  expresses  much 
more  —  human  nature  wounded  to  its  inmost  depths,  which 
here  speaks  out  its  sufferings  ?  ” 

Thus  is  it  spoken  in  Denmark  of  my  works,  after  an  inter¬ 
val  of  nine  or  ten  years  ;  thus  speaks  the  voice  of  a  noble, 
venerated  man.  It  is  with  me  and  the  critics  as  it  is  with 
wine,  —  the  more  years  pass  before  it  is  drunk,  the  better  is 
its  flavor. 

During  the  year  in  which  the  “  Fiddler”  came  out,  I  visited 
for  the  first  time  the  neighboring  country  of  Sweden.  I  went 
by  the  Gota  canal  to  Stockholm.  At  that  time  nobody  under¬ 
stood  what  is  now  called  Scandinavian  sympathies  ;  there 
still  existed  a  sort  of  mistrust  inherited  from  the  old  wars  be¬ 
tween  the  two  neighbor  nations.  Little  was  known  of  Swed¬ 
ish  literature,  and  yet  it  required  little  pains  for  a  Dane  easily 
to  read  and  understand  the  Swedish  language  ;  people  scarce¬ 
ly  knew  Tegner’s  “  Frithiof  and  Axel,”  excepting  through 
translations.  I  had,  however,  read  a  few  other  Swedish  au¬ 
thors,  and  the  deceased,  unfortunate  Stagnelius  pleased  me 
more  as  a  poet  than  Tegner,  who  represented  poetry  in 
Sweden.  I,  who  hitherto  had  only  travelled  into  Germany 
and  southern  countries,  where  by  this  means  the  departure 
from  Copenhagen  was  also  the  departure  from  my  mother 
tongue,  felt,  in  this  respect,  almost  at  home  in  Sweden  :  the 
languages  are  so  much  akin,  that  of  two  persons  each  might 
read  in  the  language  of  his  own  country,  and  yet  the  other 
understand  him.  It  seemed  to  me,  as  a  Dane,  that  Denmark 
expanded  itself;  kinship  with  the  people  exhibited  itself  in 
many  ways,  more  and  more  ;  and  I  felt  in  a  lively  degree  how 
Dear  akin  are  Swedes,  Danes,  and  Norwegians. 

I  met  with  cordial,  kind  people,  and  with  these  I  easily 
iL.ade  acquaintance.  I  reckon  this  journey  among  the  hap¬ 
piest  I  ever  made.  I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  character  of 
Swedish  scenery,  and  therefore  I  was  in  the  highest  degree 
astonished  by  the  Trollhatta  voyage,  and  by  the  extremely 
picturesque  situation  of  Stockholm.  It  sounds  to  the  unini 
Liated  half  like  a  fairy  tal  i,  when  Dne  say.7  that  the  steamboat 


140 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


goes  up  across  the  lakes  over  the  mountains,  from  whenct 
may  be  seen  the  outstretched  pine  and  beech  woods  below. 
Immense  sluices  heave  up  and  lower  the  vessel  again,  whilst 
the  travellers  ramble  through  the  woods.  None  of  the  cas¬ 
cades  of  Switzerland,  none  in  Italy,  not  even  that  of  Terni, 
have  in  them  anything  so  imposing  as  that  of  Trollhatta, 
Such  is  the  impression,  at  all  events,  which  it  made  on  me. 

On  this  journey,  and  at  this  last-mentioned  place,  com¬ 
menced  a  very  interesting  acquaintance,  and  one  which  has 
not  been  without  its  influence  on  me,  —  an  acquaintance  with 
the  Swedish  authoress,  Fredrika  Bremer.  I  had  just  been 
speaking  with  the  captain  of  the  steamboat  and  some  of  the 
passengers  about  the  Swedish  authors  living  in  Stockholm, 
and  I  mentioned  my  desire  to  see  and  converse  with  Miss 
Bremer. 

“  You  will  not  meet*with  her,”  said  the  captain,  “  as  she  is 
at  this  moment  on  a  visit  in  Norway.” 

“  She  will  be  coming  back  while  I  am  there,”  said  I  in 
joke  ;  “I  always  am  lucky  in  my  journeys,  and  that  which  I 
most  wish  for  is  always  accomplished.” 

“  Hardly  this  time,  however,”  said  the  captain. 

A  few  hours  after  this  he  came  up  to  me  laughing,  with  the 
list  of  the  newly  arrived  passengers  in  his  hand.  “  Lucky 
fellow,”  said  he  aloud,  “  you  take  good  fortune  with  you  ;  Miss 
Bremer  is  here,  and  sails  with  us  to  Stockholm.” 

I  received  it  as  a  joke;  he  showed  me  the  list,  but  still  I 
was  uncertain.  Among  the  new  arrivals  I  could  see  no  one 
who  resembled  an  authoress.  Evening  came  on,  and  about 
midnight  we  were  on  the  great  Wener  Lake.  At  sunrise  I 
wished  to  have  a  view  of  this  extensive  lake,  the  shores  of 
which  could  scarcely  be  seen  ;  and  for  this  purpose  I  left  the 
cabin.  At  the  very  moment  that  I  did  so,  another  passenger 
was  also  doing  the  same,  —  a  lady  neither-  young  nor  old, 
wrapped  in  a  shawl  and  cloak.  I  thought  to  myself,  if  Miss 
Bremer  is  on  board,  this  must  be  she,  and  fell  into  discourse 
with  her  :  she  replied  politely,  but  still  distantly,  nor  would 
she  directly  answer  my  question  whether  she  was  the  author¬ 
ess  of  the  celebrated  novels.  She  asked  after  my  name  ;  was 
acquainted  with  it,  but  confessed  that  she  had  read  none  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


141 


my  works.  She  then  inquired  whether  I  had  not  some  of 
them  with  me,  and  I  lent  her  a  copy  of  “  The  Improvisatore,”* 
which  I  had  destined  for  Beskow.  She  vanished  immediately 
with  the  volumes,  and  was  not  again  visible  all  morning. 

When  I  again  saw  her,  her  countenance  was  beaming,  and 
she  was  full  of  cordiality  ;  she  pressed  my  hand,  and  said  that 
she  had  read  the  greater  part  of  the  first  volume,  and  that  she 
now  knew  me. 

The  vessel  flew  with  us  across  the  mountains,  through  quiet 
inland  lakes  and  forests,  till  it  arrived  at  the  Baltic  Sea,  where 
islands  lie  scattered,  as  in  the  Archipelago,  and  where  the 
most  remarkable  transition  takes  place  from  naked  cliffs  to 
grassy  islands,  and  to  those  on  which  stand  trees  and  houses. 
Eddies  and  breakers  make  it  here  necessary  to  take  on  board 
a  skillful  pilot ;  and  there  are  indeed  some  places  where  every 
passenger  must  sit  quietly  on  his  seat,  whilst  the  eye  of  the 
pilot  is  riveted  upon  one  point  On  shipboard  one  feels  the 
mighty  power  of  nature,  which  at  one  moment  seizes  hold  of 
the  vessel,  and  the  next  lets  it  go  again.  Miss  Bremer  related 
many  legends  and  many  histories  which  were  connected  with 
this  or  that  island,  or  those  farm  premises  up  aloft  on  the 
mainland. 

In  Stockholm  the  acquaintance  with  her  increased,  and 
year  after  year  the  letters  which  have  passed  between  us  have 
strengthened  it.  She  is  a  noble  woman  ;  the  great  truths  of 
religion,  and  the  poetry  which  lies  in  the  quiet  circumstances 
of  life,  have  penetrated  her  being. 

It  was  not  until  after  my  visit  to  Stockholm  that  her  Swed¬ 
ish  translation  of  my  novel  came  out  ;  my  lyrical  poems  only, 
and  my  “Journey  on  Foot,”  were  known  to  a  few  authors  \ 
*hese  received  me  with  the  utmost  kindness,  and  the  lately 
deceased  Dahlgren,  well  known  by  his  humorous  poems, 
wrote  a  song  in  my  honor  —  in  short,  I  met  with  hospitality, 
and  countenances  beaming  with  Sunday  gladness. 

I  had  brought  with  me  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Or- 
sted  to  the  celebrated  Berzelius,  who  gave  me  a  good  recep¬ 
tion  in  the  old  city  of  Upsala.  From  this  place  I  returned  to 
Stockholm.  City,  country,  and  people  were  all  dear  to  me  , 
it  seemed  to  me,  as  I  said  before,  that  the  boundaries  of  my 


142 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


native  land  had  stretched  themselves  out,  and  I  now  fust  felt 
the  kindredship  of  the  three  peoples,  and  in  this  feeling  I 
wrote  a  Scandinavian  song.  In  this  poem  there  was  nothing 
of  politics  :  politics  I  have  nothing  to  do  with.  The  poet  is 
not  to  serve  politics,  but  go  before  movements  like  a  prophet. 
It  was  a  hymn  of  praise  for  all  the  three  nations,  for  that 
which  was  peculiar  and  best  in  each  one  of  them. 

“  One  can  see  that  the  Swedes  made  a  deal  of  him,”  was 
the  first  remark  which  I  heard  at  home  on  this  song. 

Years  pass  on ;  the  neighbors  understand  each  other  bet¬ 
ter  ;  Oehlenschlager,  Fredrika  Bremer,  and  Tegner  cause 
them  to  read  each  other’s  authors  ;  and  the  foolish  remains 
of  the  old  enmity,  which  had  no  other  foundation  than  that 
they  did  not  know  each  other,  vanished.  There  now  prevails 
a  beautiful,  cordial  relationship  between  Sweden  and  Den¬ 
mark.  A  Scandinavian  club  has  been  established  in  Stock¬ 
holm  ;  and  with  this  my  song  came  to  honor  ;  and  it  was 
then  said,  “  It  will  outlive  everything  that  Andersen  has 
written  :  ”  which  was  as  unjust  as  when  they  said  that  it  was 
only  the  product  of  flattered  vanity.  This  song  is  now  sung 
in  Sweden  as  well  as  in  Denmark. 

On  my  return  home  I  began  to  study  history  industriously, 
and  made  myself  still  further  acquainted  with  the  literature  of 
foreign  countries.  Yet  still  the  volume  which  afforded  me 
the  greatest  pleasure  was  that  of  nature ;  and  during  a  sum¬ 
mer  residence  among  the  country  seats  of  Funen,  and  more 
especially  at  Lykkesholm,  with  its  highly  romantic  site  in  the 
midst  of  woods,  and  at  the  noble  seat  of  Glorup,  from  whose 
possessor  I  met  with  the  most  friendly  reception,  did  I  acquire 
more  true  wisdom,  assuredly,  in  my  solitary  rambles,  than  I 
ever  could  have  gained  from  the  schools. 

The  house  of  the  Conference  Councilor  Collin  in  Copen- 
hagen  was  at  that  time,  as  it  has  been  since,  a  second  father’s 
house  to  me,  and  there  I  had  parents,  and  brothers,  and  sisters. 
It  was  here  that  the  humor  and  love  of  life  observable  in 
various  passages  of  the  novel  “  O.  T.,”  and  in  the  little  dra¬ 
matic  pieces  written  about  this  time,  for  instance,  “  The  Invis¬ 
ible  at  Sprogc,”  had  their  origin,  and  where  much  good  waj 
done  to  me  in  this  respect,  so  that  my  morbid  turn  of  mini 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


143 


was  unable  to  gain  the  mastery  of  me.  Collin’s  eldest  daugh¬ 
ter,  Madame  Ingeborg  Drewsen,  especially  exercised  great 
influence  over  me,  by  her  merry  humor  and  wit.  When  the 
mind  is  yielding  and  elastic,  like  the  expanse  of  ocean,  it 
readily,  like  the  ocean,  reflects  its  surroundings. 

I  was  very  productive,  and  my  writings,  in  my  own  country, 
were  now  classed  among  those  which  were  always  bought  and 
read  ;  therefore  for  each  fresh  work  I  received  a  higher  pav- 
ment.  Yet  truly,  when  you  consider  what  a  circumscribed 
world  the  Danish  reading  world  is,  and  that  I  was  not,  when 
looked  at  from  Heiberg’s  and  the  “  Monthly’s  ”  balcony,  ac¬ 
knowledged  as  a  poet  of  the  time,  you  will  see  that  this  pay¬ 
ment  could  not  be  the  most  liberal.  Yet  I  had  to  live.  I 
call  to  my  mind  how  astonished  Charles  Dickens  was  at  hear¬ 
ing  of  the  payment  I  had  received  for  “  The  Improvisatore.” 

‘‘What  did  you  get?”  asked  he.  I  answered,  “Nineteen 
pounds!”  —  “For  the  sheet?”  he  inquired.  “No,”  said  I, 
for  the  whole  book.”  —  “We  must  be  misunderstanding  each 
other,”  continued  he  ;  “  you  don’t  mean  to  say  that  for  the 
whole  work,  ‘The  Improvisatore,’  you  have  only  nineteen 
pounds ;  you  must  mean  for  each  sheet !  ”  I  was  sorry  to 
tell  him  that  it  was  not  the  case,  and  that  I  had  only  got 
about  half  a  pound  a  sheet. 

“  I  should  really  not  believe  it,”  exclaimed  he,  “  if  you  had 
not  told  it  yourself.” 

To  be  sure,  Dickens  did  not  know  anything  about  our  cir¬ 
cumstances  in  Denmark,  and  measured  the  payment  with 
what  he  got  for  his  works  in  England  ;  but  it  is  very  probable 
that  my  English  translator  gained  more  than  I,  the  author. 
Jut  after  all,  I  lived,  though  in  want. 

To  write,  and  always  to  write,  in  order  to  live,  I  felt  would 
be  destructive  to  me,  and  my  attempts  to  acquire  some  kind 
of  situation  failed.  I  tried  to  get  a  situation  in  the  royal 
library.  H.  C.  Orsted  supported  warmly  my  petition  to  the 
director  of  the  library,  the  grand  chamberlain  Hauch.  Orsted 
ended  his  written  testimony,  after  having  mentioned  H.  C. 
Andersen’s  “  merits  as  a  poet,”  by  —  “  He  is  characterized  by 
uprightness,  and  by  a  regularity  and  exactness  which  many 
think  cannot  be  found  in  a  poet,  but  will  be  conceded  to  him 
by  those  who  know  him  1  ; 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


144 

These  words  of  Orsted  about  me  did  not,  however,  produce 
any  effect ;  the  grand  chamberlain  dismissed  me  with  great 
politeness,  saying  that  I  was  too  highly  endowed  for  such  a 
trivial  work  as  that  in  the  library.  I  tried  to  form  an  engage 
ment  with  the  Society  for  promoting  the  Liberty  of  the  Press, 
having  planned  and  made  a  design  for  a  Danish  populai 
almanac,  like  the  very  renowned  German  one  of  Gubitz  :  no 
Danish  popular  almanac  existed  here  at  that  time.  I  be¬ 
lieved  that  my  pictures  of  nature  in  “  The  Improvisatore  ”  had 
proved  my  capability  for  this  kind  of  productions,  and  that  my 
“  Wonder  Stories,”  which  I  had  then  commenced  to  publish, 
might  show  them  that  I  could  tell  stories  too. 

Orsted  was  very  well  pleased  with  the  plan,  and  supported 
it  in  the  best  way,  but  the  committee  decided  that  the  work 
would  be  burdened  with  too  many  and  too  great  difficulties 
for  the  society  to  engage  in  it.  In  other  words,  they  had  no 
confidence  in  my  ability  ;  but  afterward  such  an  almanac  was 
published  by  another  editor,  under  the  auspices  of  the  society 

I  was  always  forced,  in  order  to  live,  to  think  of  the  mor¬ 
row.  One  hospitable  house  more  was  in  these  days  opened 
for  me,  that  of  the  old,  now  deceased,  widow  Biigel,  net 
Adzer.  Conference  Councilor  Collin  was,  however,  at  that 
time,  my  help,  my  consolation,  my  support,  and  he  is  one  of 
those  men  who  do  more  than  they  promise.  I  suffered  want 
and  poverty  —  but  I  have  no  wish  to  speak  of  it  here.  I 
thought,  however,  as  I  did  in  the  years  of  my  boyhood,  that 
when  it  seems  to  be  hardest  for  us,  our  Lord  brings  us  help  ! 
I  have  a  star  of  fortune,  and  it  is  God  ! 

One  day,  as  I  sat  in  my  little  room,  somebody  knocked  at 
the  door,  and  a  stranger  with  beautiful  and  amiable  features 
stood  before  me :  it  was  the  late  Couflt  Conrad  Rantzau-Brei 
tenburg,  a  native  of  Holstein  and  Prime  Minister  in  Denmark. 
He  loved  poetry,  was  in  love  with  the  beauty  of  Italy,  and  was 
desirous  of  making  acquaintance  with  the  author  of  “  The  Im 
provisatore.”  He  read  my  book  in  the  original ;  his  imagina 
don  was  powerfully  seized  by  it,  and  he  spoke,  both  at  court 
and  in  his  own  private  circles,  of  my  book  in  the  warmest 
manner.  He  was  of  a  noble,  amiable  nature,  a  highly  edu¬ 
cated  man,  and  possessed  of  a  truly  chivalrous  disposition.  In 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE .  1 45 

his  youth  he  had  travelled  much,  and  spent  a  long  time  in 
Spain  and  Italy ;  his  judgment  was  therefore  of  great  impor¬ 
tance  to  me.  He  did  not  stop  here  ;  he  sought  me  out.  He 
stepped  quietly  into  my  little  room,  thanked  me  for  my  book, 
besought  me  to  visit  him,  and  frankly  asked  me  whether  there 
were  no  means  by  which  he  could  be  of  use  to  me. 

I  hinted  how  oppressive  it  was  to  be  forced  to  write  ir  ol¬ 
der  to  live,  and  not  move  free  from  care,  to  be  able  to  de¬ 
velop  one’s  mind  and  thoughts.  He  pressed  my  hand  in  a 
friendly  manner,  and  promised  to  be  an  efficient  friend,  and 
that  he  became.  Collin  and  H.  C.  Orsted  secretly  associated 
themselves  with  him,  and  became  my  intercessors  with  King 
Frederick  VI. 

Already  for  many  years  there  had  existed,  under  Frederick 
VI.,  an  institution  which  does  the  highest  honor  to  the  Danish 
government,  namely,  that  beside  the  considerable  sum  ex¬ 
pended  yearly  for  the  travelling  expenses  of  young  literary 
men  and  artists,  a  small  pension  shall  be  awarded  to  such  of 
them  as  enjoy  no  office  emoluments.  All  our  most  important 
poets  have  had  a  share  of  this  assistance,  —  Oehlenschlager, 
Ingemann,  Heiberg,  C.  Winther,  and  others.  Hertz  had  just 
then  received  such  a  pension,  and  his  future  subsistence  was 
made  thus  the  more  secure.  It  was  my  hope  and  my  wish  that 
the  same  good  fortune  might  be  mine  —  and  it  was.  Frederick 
VI.  granted  me  two  hundred  rix-dollars  banco  yearly.  I  was 
filled  with  gratitude  and  joy.  I  was  no  longer  forced  to  write 
in  order  to  live;  I  had  a  sure  support  in  the  possible  event  of 
sickness  ;  I  was  less  dependent  upon  the  people  about  me. 

A  new  chapter  of  my  life  began. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


'ROM  this  day  forward,  it  was  as  if  a  more  constant  sun- 


X  shine  had  entered  my  heart.  I  felt  within  myself  more 
repose,  more  certainty ;  it  was  clear  to  me,  as  I  glanced  back 
over  my  earlier  life,  that  a  loving  Providence  watched  over 
me,  that  all  was  directed  for  me  by  a  higher  Power ;  and  the 
firmer  such  a  conviction  becomes,  the  more  secure  does  a  man 
feel  himself.  My  childhood  lay  behind  me,  my  youthful  life 
began  properly  from  this  period  ;  hitherto  it  had  been  only  an 
arduous  swimming  against  the  stream.  The  spring  of  my  life 
commenced  ;  but  still  the  spring  had  its  dark  days,  its  storms, 
before  it  advanced  to  settled  summer  ;  it  has  these  in  order  to 
develop  what  shall  then  ripen. 

That  which  one  of  my  dearest  friends  wrote  to  me  on  one 
of  my  later  travels  abroad,  may  serve  as  an  introduction  to 
what  I  have  here  to  relate.  He  wrote  in  his  own  peculiar 
style  :  “  It  is  your  vivid  imagination  which  creates  the  idea 
of  your  being  despised  in  Denmark  ;  it  is  utterly  untrue.  You 
and  Denmark  agree  admirably,  and  you  would  agree  still  bet¬ 
ter,  if  there  were  in  Denmark  no  theatre  —  Hinc  illce  lachry* 
mce  !  This  cursed  theatre.  Is  this,  then,  Denmark  ?  and  are 
you,  then,  nothing  but  a  writer  for  the  theatre  ?  ” 

Herein  lies  a  solid  truth.  The  theatre  has  been  the  cave 
out  of  which  most  of  the  evil  storms  have  burst  upon  me 
They  are  peculiar  people,  these  people  of  the  theatre  ;  from  the 
first  pantomimist  to  the  first  lover,  every  one  places  himself 
systematically  in  one  scale,  and  puts  all  the  world  in  the 
other.  The  pit’s  circle  is  the  boundary  cf  the  world  ;  the  cri¬ 
tiques  in  the  newspapers  are  the  fixed  stars  of  the  universe  ; 
if  applause  now  resounds,  soon  it  is  only  idle  babble  and  the 
repetitions  of  what  others  have  said ;  is  it  not,  then,  natural 
and  pardonable  to  grow  giddy  over  a  reputation  which  is 
\  eally  sound  ? 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


147 


As  politics  it  that  time  did  not  play  any  part  with  us,  the 
theatre  furnished  the  chief  topic  of  the  daily  and  nightly  con¬ 
versations.  The  roy?d  Danish  theatre  might  indeed  be  placed 
on  a  level  with  the  first  theatres  in  Europe  ;  it  possessed  emi¬ 
nent  talent.  Nielsen  was  then  in  the  vigor  of  .youth,  and  be¬ 
sides  his  ability  as  an  artist  he  possessed  an  organ  of  speech 
which  was  like  very  music,  delivering  the  words  in  a  way  to 
bewitch  one.  The  Danish  stage  had  then  Dr.  Ryge,  who  by 
his  person,  genius,  and  voice,  was  especially  fitted  to  act  in 
the  tragedies  of  Oehlenschlager.  The  stage  possessed  in  Fry- 
dendal  a  rare  impersonation  of  wit  and  humor,  characterized 
by  education  and  gentility.  Stage  was  a  complete  cavalier,  a 
true  gentleman,  and  had  a  ready  wit  in  playing  comic  roles. 
Besides  those,  we  possessed  actors  of  talent  still  living,  — • 
Madame  Heiberg,  Madame  Nielsen,  Mr.  Rosenkilde,  and  Mr. 
Phister.  We  had  at  that  time  an  opera,  and  the  ballet  began 
to  flourish  under  the  leading  of  Bournonville. 

As  I  have  before  said,  our  theatre  was  one  of  the  first 
stages  of  Europe,  but  we  cannot  therefore  assert  that  all  who 
gave  it  direction  were  true  leaders,  although  some  of  them  as¬ 
sumed  to  be  such  ;  at  least  so  it  seemed  to  me,  because  they 
did  not  pay  much  regard  to  authors.  I  believe  that  the  Dan¬ 
ish  theatre  always  has  been  in  want  of  a  kind  of  military  dis¬ 
cipline,  and  this  is  absolutely  necessary  where  many  interests 
have  to  be  combined  into  a  whole,  —  even  when  that  whole  is 
an  artistic  one.  I  have  always  observed  the  same  dissatisfac¬ 
tion  on  the  part  of  the  public  toward  the  directors  of  the  thea¬ 
tre,  especially  as  regards  the  choice  of  pieces,  as  exists  between 
the  directors  and  the  actors.  It  could  not  be,  perhaps,  other¬ 
wise,  and  all  young  authors,  who  like  me  do  not  enjoy  the 
favor  of  the  hour,  will  have  to  suffer  and  struggle  under  the 
same  circumstances.  Even  Oehlenschlager  suffered  much, 
was  overlooked,  or,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  at  least  not  treated  as 
he  ought  to  have  been.  The  actors  were  applauded,  he  was 
hissed.  How  have  I  not  heard  my  countrymen  speak  of  that 
genius  !  Well,  it  may  perhaps  be  so  in  all  countries,  but  how 
sad  that  it  should  be  so.  Oehlenschlager  relates  himself  that 
his  children  at  school  had  to  listen  to  the  unkind  words  of  the 
other  boys  at  having  such  a  father  as  he  was  ;  and  they  talked 
on1)’  as  they  heard  their  parents  talk. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


ij.8 

Those  actors  and  actresses  who,  through  talent  or  popular 
favor,  take  the  first  rank,  very  often  assume  to  be  above  both 
the  directors  and  authors  ;  these  must  pay  court  to  them,  or 
they  will  ruin  a  part,  or,  what  is  still  worse,  spread  abroad 
an  unfavorable  opinion  of  the  piece  previous  to  its  being  acted  ; 
and  thus  you  have  a  coffee-house  criticism  before  any  one 
ought  properly  to  know  anything  of  the  work.  It  is  moreover 
characteristic  of  the  people  of  Copenhagen,  that  when  a  new 
piece  is  announced,  they  do  not  say,  “  I  am  glad  of  it,”  but 
“  It  will  probably  be  good  for  nothing  ;  it  will  be  hissed  off  the 
stage.”  That  hissing  off  plays  a  great  part,  and  is  an  amuse¬ 
ment  which  fills  the  house  ;  but  it  is  not  the  bad  actor  who 
is  hissed ;  no,  the  author  and  the  composer  only  are  the  crim¬ 
inals  ;  for  them  the  scaffold  is  erected.  Five  minutes  is  the 
usual  time,  and  the  whistles  resound,  and  the  lovely  women 
smile  and  felicitate  themselves,  like  the  Spanish  ladies  at  their 
bloody  bull-fights. 

For  a  number  of  years  November  and  December  were  al¬ 
ways  the  most  dangerous  time  for  a  new  piece,  because  the 
young  scholars  were  then  made  “  Students,”  and,  having 
cleared  the  fence  of  “  artium,”  were  very  severe  judges.  All 
our  most  eminent  dramatic  writers  have  been  whistled  down, 
—  as  Oehlenschlager,  Heiberg,  Hertz,  and  others ;  to  say 
nothing  of  foreign  classics,  as  Moliere. 

In  the  mean  time  the  theatre  is  and  was  the  most  profitable 
sphere  of  labor  for  the  Danish  writer.  When  I  stood  without 
help  and  support  this  induced  me  to  make  a  trial,  and  to  writ* 
the  opera  text  already  spoken  of,  —  for  which  I  was  so  severely 
criticised  ;  and  an  internal  impulse  drove  me  also  to  try  my 
powers  in  writing  vaudevilles.  The  authors  were  then  poorly 
paid,  until  Collin  took  chaige  of  the  theatre  as  manager. 
There  are  things  we  call  facts,  which  canr.ot  be  effaced,  and  I 
must  mention  them.  A  well  known,  very  able  business  man, 
was  made  director  of  the  theatre.  A  good  arrangement  in 
many  things  was  looked  for  because  he  was  a  clever  account¬ 
ant ;  and  there  was  also  an  anticipation  that  the  opera  would 
flourish  because  he  had  a  good  ear  for  music,  sang  in  musical 
circles,  and  thus  energetic  changes  were  expected  ;  among 
these  changes  was  a  regulation  as  to  the  pay  for  the  pieces 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


149 


As  it  was  a  difficult  matter  to  judge  of  their  value  it  was 
decided  that  they  should  be  paid  for  according  to  their  length  ; 
at  the  first  representation  of  a  piece,  the  manager  stood  with 
a  watch  in  his  hand  and  noted  down  how  many  quarters  of  an 
hour  it  took  to  go  through  with  it ;  these  were  added  together, 
and  the  payment  was  regulated  by  the  sum.  If  the  last  quar¬ 
ter  of  an  hour  was  not  all  taken  by  the  piece  it  fell  to  the 
theatre  :  was  not  that  a  very  business-like  and  well  contrived 
plan  ?  Everybody  thinks  of  number  one,  and  that  was  the 
case  with  me.  I  needed  every  shilling,  and  therefore  I  suf¬ 
fered  a  heavy  loss  when  my  vaudeville,  “  Parting  and  Meet¬ 
ing,”  which  was  divided  into  two  acts,  with  separate  titles, 
was  considered  as  two  vaudevilles,  and  according  to  the  man¬ 
ager’s  opinion  could  even  as  well  be  given  separately.  But 
“  we  must  not  speak  evil  of  our  magistrate,”  and  the  directory 
of  the  theatre  is  the  dramatic  poet’s  magistrate,  whereas  some 
of  the  personages  —  but  I  will  let  them  speak  for  themselves  ! 

Collin  was  no  longer  manager  of  the  theatre,  —  Counselor 
of  Justice  Molbech  had  taken  his  place;  and  the  tyranny  which 
now  commenced  degenerated  into  the  comic.  I  fancy  that  in 
course  of  time  the  manuscript  volumes  of  the  censorship, 
which  are  preserved  in  the  theatre,  and  in  which  Molbech  has 
certainly  recorded  his  judgments  on  received  and  rejected 
pieces,  will  present  some  remarkable  characteristics.  Over 
all  that  I  wrote  the  staff  was  broken  !  One  way  was  open  to 
me  by  which  to  bring  my  pieces  on  the  stage  ;  and  that  was 
to  give  them  to  those  actors  who  in  summer  gave  representa¬ 
tions  at  their  own  cost.  In  the  summer  of  1839  I  wrote  the 
vaudeville  of  “  The  Invisible  One  at  Sprogo,”  to  scenery 
which  had  been  painted  for  another  piece  which  fell  through  ; 
and  the  unrestrained  merriment  of  the  piece  gave  it  such  favor 
with  the  public  that  I  obtained  its  acceptance  by  the  mana¬ 
ger  ;  and  that  light  sketch  still  maintains  itself  on  the  boards, 
and  has  survived  such  a  number  of  representations  as  I  had 
never  anticipated. 

This  approbation,  however,  procured  me  no  further  advan 
tage,  for  each  of  my  succeeding  dramatic  works  received  only 
rejection,  and  occasioned  me  only  mortification.  Neverthe¬ 
less,  seized  by  the  idea  and  the  circumstances  of  the  little 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


*5 D 

0 

French  narrative,  “  Les  Epaves,”  I  determined  to  diamatize 
it ;  and  as  I  had  often  heard  that  I  did  not  possess  the  as¬ 
siduity  sufficient  to  work  my  materiel  well,  I  resolved  to  labor 
this  drama  —  “  The  Mulatto  ”  —  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end  in  the  most  diligent  manner,  and  to  compose  it  in  alter¬ 
nately  rhyming  verse,  as  was  then  the  fashion.  It  was  a  for¬ 
eign  subject  of  which  I  availed  myself ;  but  if  verses  are 
music,  I  at  least  endeavored  to  adapt  my  music  to  the  text, 
and  to  let  the  poetry  of  another  diffuse  itself  through  my  spir¬ 
itual  blood  ;  so  that  people  should  not  be  heard  to  say,  as 
they  had  done  before,  regarding  the  romance  of  Walter  Scott, 
that  the  composition  was  cut  down  and  fitted  to  the  stage. 

The  piece  was  ready  and  was  read  to  several  able  men,  old 
friends,  and  to  some  of  the  actors  also  who  were  to  appear  in 
it ;  they  declared  it  excellent,  and  very  interesting  ;  especially 
Mr.  AVilliam  Holst,  whom  I  wished  to  act  the  principal  part, 
he  was  one  of  the  artists  on  the  stage  who  met  me  kindly  and 
generously,  and  to  whom  I  ought  to  express  my  thanks  and 
acknowledgment.  In  the  antechamber  of  Frederick  VI.  one 
of  our  government  officers  from  the  West  Indies  spoke  against 
the  piece,  saying  that  he  had  heard  it  ought  not  to  be  admitted 
on  the  royal  stage,  because  it  might  have  a  pernicious  influ¬ 
ence  upon  the  blacks  of  our  West  Indian  islands.  “  But  this 
piece  is  not  to  be  represented  at  the  West  Indies, ”  was  the 
reply. 

The  piece  was  sent  in,  and  was  rejected  by  Molbech.  It 
was  sufficiently  known  that  what  he  cherished  for  the  boards, 
withered  there  the  first  evening  ;  but  that  what  he  cast  away 
as  weeds  were  flowers  for  the  garden  —  a  real  consolation  for 
me.  The  assistant-manager,  Privy  Counselor  of  State  Adler, 
a  man  of  taste  and  liberality,  became  the  patron  of  my  work  ; 
and  since  a  very  favorable  opinion  of  it  already  prevailed  with 
the  public,  after  I  had  read  it  to  many  persons,  it  was  resolved 
on  for  representation. 

Before  the  piece  was  represented  on  the  stage  there  oc¬ 
curred  a  little  scene,  as  characteristic  as  amusing,  which  I  will 
relate  here.  There  was  a  very  brave  man,  but  a  man  of  na 
artistic  knowledge,  whose  judgment  of  the  piece,  however, 
might  turn  the  scale  :  he  told  me  that  he  was  well  disposed 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE .  I5I 

toward  me,  but  that  he  had  not  yet  read  my  piece  ;  that  there 
were  many  who  spoke  well  of  it,  but  that  Molbech  had  written 
a  whole  sheet  against  it.  “  And  now  I  must  also  tell  you,”  he 
added,  “  that  it  is  copied  from  a  novel.  You  write  novels  your¬ 
self  ;  why  do  you  not  yourself  invent  a  story  for  your  piece  1 
Then  I  must  remind  you  that  to  write  novels  is  one  thing  and 
to  write  comedies  another.  In  these  there  must  be  theatrical 
effect ;  is  there  any  such  in  ‘  The  Mulatto/  and  if  so  is  it  any 
thing  new?  ”  I  tried  to  enter  into  the  ideas  of  the  man,  and 
answered,  —  “  There  is  a  ball !  ” 

“Yes,  that  is  very  well,  but  that  we  have  in  ‘The  Bride 
is  there  not  something  br3nd-new  ?  ”  —  “  There  is  a  slave-mar¬ 
ket!”  said  I.  “A  slave-market:  that  I  think  we  have  not 
had  before  !  Well,  that  is  something,  I  shall  be  just  toward 
you.  I  like  that  slave-market !  ”  And  I  think  that  this  slave- 
market  threw  the  last  necessary  yes  in  the  urn  for  the  accep¬ 
tance  of  “  The  Mulatto.” 

I  had  the  honor  to  read  it  before  my  present  King  and 
Queen,  who  received  me  in  a  very  kind  and  friendly  manner, 
and  from  whom,  since  that  time,  I  have  experienced  many 
proofs  of  favor  and  cordiality.  The  day  of  representation 
arrived  ;  the  bills  were  posted  ;  I  had  not  closed  my  eyes 
through  the  whole  night  from  excitement  and  expectation  ; 
the  people  already  stood  in  throngs  before  the  theatre,  to  pro¬ 
cure  tickets,  when  royal  messengers  galloped  through  the 
streets,  solemn  groups  collected,  the  minute  guns  pealed  — 
Frederick  VI.  had  died  that  morning  ! 

The  death  was  proclaimed  from  the  balcony  of  the  palace 
of  Amalienborg,  and  hurrahs  were  given  for  Christian  VIII., 
the  gates  of  the  city  were  closed,  and  the  army  swore  alle¬ 
giance.  Frederick  VI.  belonged  to  the  patriarchal  age  ;  the 
generation  that  had  grown  up  with  him  had  not  before  suffered 
the  loss  of  a  king,  and  the  sorrow  and  seriousness  were  great 
and  sincere. 

For  two  months  more  was  the  theatre  closed,  and  was 
opened  under  Christian  VIII.,  with  my  drama,  “The  Mu* 
latto  ”  ;  which  was  received  with  the  most  triumphant  acclama* 
tion  ;  but  I  could  not  at  once  feel  the  joy  of  it,  I  felt  only  re 
ueved  from  a  state  of  excitement,  anc  breathed  more  freely. 


I52 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


This  piece  continued  through  a  series  of  representations  to 
receive  the  same  approbation  ;  many  placed  this  work  far 
above  all  my  former  ones,  and  considered  that  with  it  began 
my  proper  poetical  career.  It  was  soon  translated  into  Swed¬ 
ish,  and  acted  with  applause  at  the  royal  theatre  in  Stock¬ 
holm.  Travelling  players  introduced  it  into  the  smaller 
towns  in  the  neighboring  country ;  a  Danish  company  gave  it 
in  the  original  language,  in  the  Swedish  city  Malmo,  and  a 
troop  of  students  from  the  university  town  of  Lund  welcomed 
,  it  with  enthusiasm.  I  had  been  for  a  week  previous  on  a 
visit  at  some  Swedish  country-houses,  where  I  was  entertained 
with  so  much  cordial  kindness  that  ihe  recollection  of  it  will 
never  quit  my  bosom  ;  and  there,  in  a  foreign  country,  I  received 
the  first  public  testimony  of  honor,  which  has  left  upon  me 
the  deepest  and  most  inextinguishable  impression.  I  was  in¬ 
vited  by  some  students  of  Lund  to  visit  their  ancient  town. 
Here  a  public  dinner  was  given  to  me  ;  speeches  were  made, 
toasts  were  pronounced  ;  and  as  I  was  in  the  evening  in  a 
family  circle,  I  was  informed  that  the  students  meant  to  honor 
me  with  a  serenade. 

I  felt  myself  actually  overcome  by  this  intelligence  ;  my 
heart  throbbed  feverishly  as  I  descried  the  thronging  troop, 
with  their  blue  caps,  approaching  the  house  arm-in-arm.  I 
experienced  a  feeling  of  humiliation  ;  a  most  lively  conscious¬ 
ness  of  my  deficiencies,  so  that  I  seemed  bowed  to  the  very 
earth  at  the  moment  others  were  elevating  me.  As  they  all 
uncovered  their  heads  while  I  stepped  forth,  I  had  need  of  all 
my  thoughts  to  avoid  bursting  into  tears.  In  the  feeling  that 
I  was  unworthy  of  all  this,  I  glanced  round  to  see  whether  a 
smile  did  not  pass  over  the  face  of  some  one,  but  I  could  dis* 
cern  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  and  such  a  discovery  would,  at  that 
moment,  have  inflicted  on  me  the  deepest  wound. 

After  a  hurra,  a  speech  was  delivered,  of  which  I  clearly 
recollect  the  following:  words  :  “  When  your  native  land  and 
the  nations  of  Europe  offer  you  their  homage,  then  may  you 
never  forget  that  the  first  public  honors  were  conferred  on  you 
by  the  students  of  Lund.” 

When  the  heart  is  warm,  the  strength  of  the  expression  ia 
Dot  weighed.  I  felt  it  deeply,  and  replied,  that  from  this 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE , 


*53 


moment  I  became  aware  that  I  must  assert  a  name  in  order 
to  render  myself  worthy  of  these  tokens  of  honor.  I  pressed 
the  hands  of  those  nearest  to  me,  and  returned  them  thanks 
50  deep,  so  heartfelt,  —  certainly  never  was  an  expression  of 
thanks  more  sincere.  When  I  returned  to  my  chamber,  1 
went  aside,  in  order  to  weep  out  this  excitement,  this  over¬ 
whelming  sensation.  “Think  no  more  of  it,  be  joyous  with 
us,”  said  some  of  my  lively  Swedish  friends  ;  but  a  decn 
earnestness  had  entered  my  soul.  Often  has  the  memory  of 
this  time  come  back  to  me  ;  and  no  noble-minded  man  who 
reads  these  pages  will  discover  vanity  in  the  fact  that  I  have 
lingered  so  long  over  this  moment  of  life,  which  scorched  the 
roots  of  pride  rather  than  nourished  them. 

My  drama  was  now  to  be  brought  on  the  stage  at  Malmo ; 
the  students  wished  to  see  it ;  but  I  hastened  my  departure, 
that  I  might  not  be  in  the  theatre  at  the  time.  With  gratitude 
and  joy  fly  my  thoughts  toward  the  Swedish  University  city, 
but  I  myself  have  not  been  there  again  since.  In  the  Swedish 
newspapers  the  honors  paid  me  were  mentioned,  and  it  was 
added  that  the  Swedes  were  not  unaware  that  in  my  own 
country  there  was  a  clique  which  persecuted  me  ;  but  that  this 
.should  not  hinder  my  neighbors  from  offering  me  the  honors 
which  they  deemed  my  due. 

It  was  when  I  had  returned  to  Copenhagen  that  I  first  truly 
felt  flow  cordially  I  had  been  received  by  the  Swedes  :  amongst 
some  of  my  old  and  tried  friends  I  found  the  most  genuine 
sympathy.  I  saw  tears  in  their  eyes,  —  tears  of  joy  for  the 
honors  paid  me  ;  and  especially,  said  they,  for  the  manner  in 
which  I  had  received  them.  There  is  but  one  manner  for 
me  ;  at  once,  in  the  midst  of  joy^,  I  fly  with  thanks  to  God. 

There  were  certain  persons  who  smiled  at  the  enthusiasm, 
and  others  who  liked  to  turn  it  into  ridicule.  The  poet 
Heiberg  said  ironically  to  me,  —  “When  I  go  to  Sweden  you 
must  go  with  me,  that  I  also  may  get  a  little  attention  !  ”  I 
did  not  like  the  joke,  and  answered,  —  “  Take  your  wife  with 
you  and  you  will  get  it  easier.” 

F  om  Sweden  there  came  only  enthusiasm  for  “The  Mulat¬ 
to,”  while  at  home  certain  voices  raised  themselves  against  it: 
u  the  material  was  merely  borrowed,  and  I  had  not  mentioned 


154 


THE  STORY  OS  MY  LIFE. 


that  on  the  printed  title-page.”  That  was  an  accidental  fault 
I  had  written  it  upon  the  last  page  of  the  manuscript,  but  as 
the  drama  itself  closed  with  the  printed  sheet,  a  new  sheet 
would  have  had  to  be  printed  in  order  to  include  that  note.  I 
consulted  one  of  our  poets,  who  thought  it  entirely  superfluous, 
because  the  novel  “  Les  Epaves  ”  was  much  read  and  known. 
Heiberg  himself,  when  he  wrote  over  again  “  The  Fairies,”  by 
Tieck,  did  not  mention  with  a  single  word  the  rich  source  from 
which  he  took  it.  But  here  he  laid  hands  on  me  ;  the  French 
narrative  was  scrupulously  studied  and  compared  with  my 
piece.  A  translation  of  “  Les  Epaves  ”  was  sent  to  the  editor 
of  “  The  Portefeuille,”  with  urgent  request  that  it  should  be 
inserted.  The  editor  let  me  know  of  it,  and  I  begged  him  of 
course  to  publish  it.  The  piece  continued  to  have  a  good  run 
on  the  stage,  but  the  criticism  diminished  the  value  of  my  work. 
That  exaggerated  praise  which  I  had  received,  now  made  me 
sensitive  to  the  blame  ;  I  could  bear  it  less  easily  than  before, 
and  saw  more  clearly  that  it  did  not  spring  out  of  an  interest 
in  the  matter,  but  was  only  uttered  in  order  to  mortify  me. 
In  the  newly  published  novel,  also,  by  the  author  of  “  Every¬ 
day  Stories,”  the  admiration  for  “  The  Mulatto  ”  was  laughed 
at.  The  idea  of  the  victory  of  genius,  which  I  had  expressed 
there,  was  considered  only  an  idle  fancy. 

For  the  rest,  my  mind  was  fresh  and  elastic  ;  I  conceived 
precisely  at  this  time  the  idea  of  “  The  Picture-Book  without 
Pictures,”  and  worked  it  out.  This  little  book  appears,  to 
judge  by  the  reviews  and  the  number  of  editions,  to  have  ob¬ 
tained  an  extraordinary  popularity  in  Germany.  One  of  those 
who  first  announced  it,  added,  —  “  Many  of  these  pictures 
offer  material  for  narratives  and  novels  —  yes,  one  gifted  with 
fancy  might  create  romances  out  of  them.”  Madame  von 
Gohren  has  in  her  first  romance,  “  The  Adopted  Daughter,” 
really  borrowed  the  material  from  “  The  Picture-Book  with¬ 
out  Pictures.”  In  Sweden,  also,  was  my  book  translated,  and 
dedicated  to  myself;  at  home  it  was  less  esteemed,  and  so  far 
as  I  remember  it  was  only  Mr.  Siesby,  who,  in  the  “  Copen¬ 
hagen  Morning  Journal,”  granted  it  a  few  kind  words.  A 
couple  of  translations  appeared  in  England,  and  the  English 
critics  gave  the  little  book  very  high  praise,  calling  it  “  an 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


*55 


Iliad  in  a  nutshell !  ”  From  England,  as  also  later  from  Ger¬ 
many,  I  have  seen  a  proof-sheet  of  the  same  book  in  a  splen 
did  edition,  which  changed  it  to  a  “  Picture-Book  without 
Pictures  ”  with  pictures.  ^ 

At  home  people  did  not  set  much  store  by  the  little  book, 
they  talked  only  of  “  The  Mulatto  ;  ”  and  finally,  only  of  the 
borrowed  materiel  of  it.  I  determined,  therefore,  to  produce 
a  new  dramatic  work,  in  which  both  subject  and  development, 
in  fact  everything,  should  be  of  my  own  conception.  I  had 
the  idea  and  now  wrote  the  tragedy  of  “  The  Moorish  Maiden,’' 
hoping  through  this  to  stop  the  mouths  of  all  my  detractors, 
and  to  assert  my  place  as  a  dramatic  poet.  I  hoped,  too, 
through  the  income  from  this,  together  with  the  proceeds  of 
“The  Mulatto,”  to  be  able  to  make  afresh  journey,  not  only  to 
Italy,  but  to  Greece  and  Turkey.  My  first  going  abroad  had 
more  than  all  beside  operated  toward  my  intellectual  develop-  ; 
ment ;  I  was  therefore  full  of  the  passion  for  travel,  and  of 
the  endeavor  to  acquire  mere  knowledge  of  nature  and  of 
human  life. 

My  new  piece  did  not  please  Heiberg,  nor  indeed  my 
dramatic  efforts  at  all;  his  wife  —  for  whom  the  chief  part 
appeared  to  me  especially  to  be  adapted  —  refused,  and  that 
not  in  the  most  friendly  manner,  to  play  it.  Deeply  wounded 
I  went  forth.  I  lamented  this  to  some  individuals.  Whether 
this  was  repeated,  or  whether  a  complaint  against  the  favorite 
of  the  public  is  a  crime, — enough:  from  this  hour  Heiberg 
became  my  opponent,  —  he  whose  intellectual  rank  I  so  highly 
estimated,  —  he  with  whom  I  would  so  willingly  have  allied 
myself,  —  and  he  who  so  often  —  I  will  venture  to  say  it  —  I 
had  approached  with  the  whole  sincerity  of  my  nature.  I  , 
have  constantly  declared  his  wife  to  be  so  distinguished  an 
actress,  and  continue  still  so  entirely  of  this  opinion,  that  I 
would  not  hesitate  one  moment  to  assert  that  she  would  have 
a  European  reputation,  were  the  Danish  language  as  widely 
diffused  as  the  German  or  the  French.  In  tragedy  she  is,  by 
the  spirit  and  the  geniality  with  which  she  comprehends  and 
fills  any  part,  a  most  interesting  artist ;  and  in  comedy  she 
stands  unrivaled. 

The  wrong  may  be  on  my  side  or  not,  —  no  matter  :  a  party 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


156 

was  opposed  to  me.  1  felt  myself  wounded,  excited  by  many 
coincident  annoyances  there.  I  felt  uncomfortable  in  my  na¬ 
tive  country  —  yes,  almost  ill.  I  therefore  left  my  piece  to  its 
fate,  and,  suffering  and  disconcerted,  I  hastened  forth  In 
this  mood  I  wrote  a  prologue  to  “  The  Moorish  Maiden,*’ 
which  betrayed  my  irritated  mind  far  too  palpably.  If  I 
would  represent  this  portion  of  my  life  more  clearly  and 
reflectively,  it  would  require  me  to  penetrate  the  mysteries 
of  the  theatre,  to  analyze  our  aesthetic  cliques,  and  to  drag 
into  conspicuous  notice  many  individuals  who  do  not  belong 
to  publicity.  Many  persons  in  my  place  would,  like  me,  have 
fallen  ill,  or  would  have  resented  it  vehemently  :  perhaps  the 
latter  would  have  been  the  most  sensible.  The  best  thing  for 
me  .was  to  go  away,  and  that  was  also  the  wish  of  my  friends. 
“  Be  of  good  cheer,  and  try  as  soon  as  possible  to  get  away 
from  that  gossip !  ”  wrote  Thorwaldsen  to  me  from  Nyso. 
“  I  hope  to  see  you  here  before  you  go  away ;  if  not,  then  w^e 
must  see  each  other  in  Rome  !  ”  —  “  For  heaven’s  sake,  set 
out !  ”  said  my  sincere  and  sympathizing  friends,  who  knew 
howr  I  suffered.  H.  C.  Orsted,  also,  and  Collin  fortified  me  in 
my  purpose,  and  Oehlenschlager  sent  me  in  a  poem  his  greet¬ 
ing  for  the  journey. 

My  friend,  the  poet  H.  P.  Holst,  w?as  also  going  abroad  ; 
his  poem,  “  O  my  country,  what  hast  thou  lost !  ”  wTas  in  every 
one’s  mouth  ;  he  had  in  a  few  affectionate  and  plain  words 
told  what  every  one  felt.  The  death  of  King  Frederick  VI. 
was  a  national  grief,  a  family  sorrow,  and  this  beautiful  poem, 
which  so  naturally  expressed  it,  took  a  strong  hold  of  the 
people.  Holst  was  the  happy  poet  of  the  day ;  without  any 
difficulty,  without  offering  any  testimonies,  he  got  a  travel¬ 
ling  pension.  This  is  said  without  any  bitterness  against  him. 
His  many  friends  in  the  Students’  Union  got  up  a  good-by 
supper  for  him,  and  this  suggested  the  same  compliment 
to  me ;  and  amongst  the  elder  ones  who  were  present  to  re¬ 
ceive  me  were  Collin,  Oehlenschlager,  and  Orsted.  This  was 
somew'hat  of  sunshine  in  the  midst  of  my  mortification  ;  songs 
by  Oehlenschlager  and  Hillerup  wrere  sung  ;  and  I  found  cor¬ 
diality  and  friendship,  as  I  quitted  my  C'  untry  in  distress* 
This  v/as  in  October  of  1840. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


157 


For  the  second  time  I  went  to  Italy  and  Rome,  to  Greece 
and  Constantinople  —  a  journey  which  I  have  described  after 
my  own.  manner  in  “  A  Poet’s  Bazaar.” 

In  Holstein  I  continued  some  days  with  Count  Rantzau- 
Breitenburg,  whose  ancestral  castle  I  now  for  the  first  time 
visited.  Here  I  became  acquainted  with  the  rich  scenery  of 
Holstein,  its  heath  and  moorland.  Although  it  was  late  in  the 
autumn  we  had  fine  days.  One  day  I  visited  the  neighboring 
village  of  Miinsterdorph,  where  the  author  of  “Siegfried  von 
Lindenberg,”  Muller  von  Itzehoe,  is  buried. 

A  railway  between  Magdeburg  and  Leipsic  was  now  built: 
It  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  and  travelled  upon  such 
a  one,  and  it  was  a  real  event  in  my  life.  In  my  “  Poet’s 
*  Bazaar  ”  you  may  read  of  the  powerful  impression  it  made  on 
me. 

Mendelssohn-Bartholdy  lived  in  Leipsic,  and  I  wished  to 
pay  him  a  visit.  Collin’s  daughter  and  his  son-in-law,  Coun¬ 
selor  of  State  Drewsen,  had  the  year  before  brought  me  a 
greeting  from  Mendelssohn.  When  on  the  Rhine  they  heard 
that  he  was  aboard  the  steamer,  and  as  they  knew  and  loved 
him  as  a  composer  they  spoke  to  him.  When  he  heard  that 
they  were  Danes  his  first  question  was  whether  they  knew  the 
Danish  poet,  Andersen.  “  I  consider  him  as  my  brother,”  said 
Madame  Drewsen,  and  that  was  a  point  of  connection.  Men¬ 
delssohn  told  them  that  they  had  read  to  him  while  he  was 
sick  my  novel,  “  Only  a  Fiddler.”  The  book  had  amused  him 
and  awakened  an  interest  in  the  author.  He  begged  them  to 
give  me  his  best  compliments,  and  added  that  I  must  not 
fail  to  come  and  see  him  when  1  passed  through  Leipsic. 
Now  I  arrived  here  but  only  to  stay  one  day.  I  went  io 
search  of  Mendelssohn  immediately:  he  was  at  rehearsal  in  the 
“  Gewandhaus.”  I  did  not  send  in  my  name,  only  that  a  trav¬ 
eller  was  very  anxious  to  call  on  him;  and  he  came,  but  was,  I 
observed,  very  much  vexed,  for  he  was  in  some  perplexity  about 
his  work.  “  I  have  but  very  little  time,  and  I  really  cannot 
talk  here  with  strangers  !  ”  said  he.  “  You  have  invited  me 
yourself,”  answered  I  ;  “  you  have  told  me  that  I  must  not  pass 
through  the  city  without  seeing  you  !  ”  —  “  Andersen  !  ”  cried 
he  now,  “is  it  you?  ”  and  his  whole  countenance  beamed  ;  he 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LlrE. 


>58 

embraced  me,  drew  me  into  the  concert-room,  and  urged  me  to 
be  present  at  the  rehearsal  of  the  Seventh  Symphony  of  Bee¬ 
thoven.  Mendelssohn  wished  to  keep  me  to  dinner,  b.ut  I  was 
to  dine  with  my  older  friend,  Brockhaus.  Immediately  after 
dinner  the  diligence  started  for  Niirnberg.  But  I  promised 
him  to  stay  on  my  return  a  couple  of  days  in  Leipsic,  and  I 
kept  my  promise. 

In  Niirnberg  I  saw  for  the  first  time  daguerreotype  pictures 
they  told  me  that  these  portraits  were  taken  in  ten  minutes  ; 
that  seemed  to  me  a  bit  of  witchcraft ;  the  art  was  new  then, 
and  far  from  what  it  is  nowadays.  Daguerreotypes  and  the 
railway  were  the  two  new  flowers  of  the  age. 

By  the  railway  I  started  for  Munich,  to  see  old  acquaintances 
and  friends.  I  met  with  many  countrymen  here  :  Blunck,  1 
Kiellerup,  Wegener,  the  animal  painter  Holm,  Marstrand, 
Storch,  Holbech,  and  the  poet  Holst,  with  whom  I  was  from 
here  to  travel  to  Italy. 

We  remained  a  couple  of  weeks  in  Munich  and  lodged  to¬ 
gether.  He  was  a  very  good  comrade,  affable  and  sympathizing. 
With  him  I  visited  sometimes  the  artists’  coffee-house,  — a  Ba¬ 
varian  reflex  of  the  life  in  Rome  ;  but  there  was  no  wine,  only 
beer  which  frothed  in  the  glasses.  I  had  no  great  pleasure 
here,  and  among  my  countrymen  were  none  who  interested  me  ; 
and  I  was  no  doubt  judged  as  a  poet  much  after  the  Copen¬ 
hagen  scale. 

Holst  was,  however,  better  treated  by  them.  I  therefore 
usually  went  alone  my  own  solitary  walk,  sometimes  in  full 
strength  of  body  and  mind,  but  often  again  despairing  of  my 
powers.  I  had  a  certain  disposition  to  dwell  upon  the  shady 
side  of  life,  to  extract  the  bitter  from  it— just  tasting  it;  I 
understood  very  well  how  to  torment  myself. 

If  1  received  little  attention  from  my  countrymen  in  the 
couple  of  weeks  I  remained  in  Munich,  yet  I  found  it  in  a 
high  degree  among  foreigners.  My  Improvisatore 5’  and  “  Only 
a  Fiddler  ”  were  known  to  several  people  here.  The  renowned 
portrait  painter,  Stieler,  sought  me  out,  opened  his  house  for 
me,  and  there  I  met  Cornelius,  Lachner,  and  Schelling,  with 
whom  I  was  acquainted  before.  Soon  more  private  houses 
stood  open  for  me.  My  name  reached  the  ears  of  the  theatre 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  \  59 

intendant,  and  I  got  a  free  place  in  the  theatre,  just  by  the 
side  of  Thalberg. 

In  “  A  Poet’s  Bazaar  ”  I  have  told  of  my  call  on  Kaulbach, 
an  artist  who  was  then  little  esteemed  by  other  artists,  but 
whom  the  world  has  now  justly  learned  to  value  as  a  great  one. 
I  saw  then  in  a  cartoon  his  magnificent  picture,  “  The  Devasta¬ 
tion  of  Jerusalem,”  and  sketches  of  his  “  Battle  of  the  Huns  ;  ” 
he  showed  me  also  the  charming  drawings  of  his  “Reinecke 
Fuchs,”  and  of  Goethe’s  “Faust.” 

I  was  as  happy  as  a  child  at  going  with  my  friend  H.  P. 
Holst  to  Italy,  for  I  could  show  him  that  beautiful  country  and 
all  its  grandeur,  but  our  countrymen  in  Munich  would  not  let 
him  go  ;  his  portrait  must  be  taken  ;  the  time  was  always  de¬ 
ferred  for  some  reason  or  other,  and  at  last,  not  able  to  tell  me 
when  he  could  depart,  I  set  off  alone,  and  had  to  give  up  the 
pleasure  of  travelling  with  the  poet  in  that  country  which  I 
loved  and  knew  as  the  beautiful  land  of  art.  In  the  mean 
time  we  agreed  to  lodge  together  in  Rome,  when  he  arrived 
there,  and  to  travel  together  to  Naples. 

I  left  Munich  the  second  of  December,  passed  over  the 
Tyrol  by  Innsbruck,  crossed  the  Brenner,  and  entered  Italy, 
the  land  of  my  longings  and  dearest  thoughts.  So  I  had  then 
really  come  back  again,  and  it  was  not  as  they  once  said  to  me, 
“  it  would  be  the  only  time  that  I  should  have  the  chance.” 

I  was  in  a  tremor  of  happiness  ;  in  a  moment  the  sorrows 
which  crushed  my  mind  were  dispersed,  and  I  prayed  earnestly 
and  fervently  to  God  that  he  would  grant  me  health  and  power 
to  live  a  true  poet.  I  reached  Rome  the  nineteenth  of  De¬ 
cember,  and  the  pictures  and  events  of  the  journey  are  given 
in  “A  Poet’s  Bazaar.”  The  same  day  I  arrived  I  got  a  good 
lodging  with  some  respectable  people  on  “  Via  Purificatione,” 
a  large  apartment,  a  whole  story,  for  Holst  and  myself,  who 
I  expected  would  soon  come. 

But  he  did  not  come  for  a  long  time.  I  was  obliged,  there¬ 
fore,  to  wander  about  alone  in  that  large,  empty  dwelling.  I 
had  hired  it  at  a  very  low  rate,  and  this  winter  there  were  but 
very  few  foreigners  in  Rome,  the  weather  being  very  bad  and 
a  malignant  fever  raging. 

A  little  garden  belonged  to  my  house,  in  which  was  a  large 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  60 

orange-tree,  covered  with  fruit.  Blooming  monthly  roses 
crept  up  the  wall  in  rich  abundance,  and  monkish  songs  sol¬ 
emnly  resounded  from  the  monastery  of  the  Capuchins,  —  the 
very  same  in  which  I  had  made  the  hnproviscitore  spend  his 
boyhood.  I  visited  again  churches  and  galleries,  and  I  saw 
again  all  the  treasures  of  art.  I  met  several  old  friends,  and 
spent  a  Christmas  Eve  ;  if  not  so  gay  a  festival  as  the  first  one, 
yet  a  Christmas  in  Rome.  I  once  more  went  through  Carni¬ 
val  and  Moccoli.  But  not  only  was  I  myself  ill,  all  nature 
about  me  appeared  likewise  to  sicken  ;  there  was  neither  the 
tranquillity  nor  the  freshness  which  attended  my  first  sojourn 
in  Rome.  The  earth  quaked,  the  Tiber  rose,  flooding  the  streets, 
where  they  rowed  in  boats  ;  fever  snatched  numbers  away.  In 
a  few  days  Prince  Borghese  lost  his  wife  and  three  sons.  The 
weather  was  sleety  and  windy  ;  in  short,  it  was  dismal. 

I  sat  many  an  evening  in  my  large  chamber  ;  a  cold  draught 
came  from  windows  and  doors  ;  scanty  brushwood  burned  in 
the  grate,  and  while  the  heat  from  it  warmed  one  side,  the 
other  felt  the  cold  air  ;  I  dressed  myself  in  a  cloak  and  sat  with 
warm  travelling  boots  on  within  doors,  and  suffered,  besides,  the 
most  violent  toothache  for  weeks,  which  I  have  tried  to  make 
fun  of  in  the  tale  “  My  Boots.” 

Holst  did  not  arrive  until  the  month  of  February,  a  little  be¬ 
fore  the  Carnival  I  suffered  in  body  and  in  mind,  but  he 
showed  me  much  sympathy,  and  that  was  a  real  blessing  to 
me. 

Rain  and  wind  prevailed.  And  now  came  letters  from  home. 
My  letters  told  me  that  “  The  Moorish  Maiden  ”  had  several 
times  been  acted  through,  and  had  gone  quietly  off  the  stage  ; 
but,  as  was  seen  beforehand,  a  small  public  only  had  been 
present,  and  therefore  the  manager  had  laid  the  piece  aside 
Chhei  Copenhagen  letters  to  our  countrymen  in  Rome  spoke 
vith  enthusiasm  of  a  new  work  by  Heiberg,  —  a  satirical  poem, 
“A  Soul  after  Death.”  It  was  but  just  out,  they  wrote  ;  all 
Copenhagen  was  full  of  it,  and  Andersen  was  famously  han¬ 
dled  in  it. 

The  book  was  admirable,  and  I  was  made  ridiculous  in  it 
That  was  the  whole  which  I  heard,  —  all  that  I  knew.  Nq 
one  told  me  what  really  was  said  of  me,  wherein  lay  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  f6l 

amusement  and  the  ludicrous.  It  is  doubly  painful  to  be 
ridiculed  when  we  don’t  know  why  we  are.  The  informa¬ 
tion  operated  like  molten  lead  dropped  into  a  wound,  and 
agonized  me  cruelly.  It  was  not  till  after  my  return  to  Den¬ 
mark  that  [  read  this  book,  and  found  that  what  was  said 
of  me  in  it  was  really  nothing  in  itself  which  was  worth  laying 
to  heart.  It  was  a  jest  over  my  celebrity,  “  From  Skaane  to 
Hundsriick,”  which  did  not  please  Heiberg  ;  he  therefore  sent 
my  “  Mulatto  ”  and  “  The  Moorish  Maiden  ”  to  the  infernal  re¬ 
gions,  where  —  and  that  was  the  most  witty  conceit  —  the 
condemned  were  doomed  to  witness  the  performance  of  both 
pieces  in  one  evening  ;  and  then  they  could  go  away  and  lay 
themselves  down  quietly.  I  found  the  poetry,  for  the  rest,  so 
excellent  that  I  was  half  induced  to  write  to  Heiberg,  and  to 
return  him  my  thanks  for  it ;  but  I  slept  upon  this  fancy,  and 
when  I  awoke  and  was  more  composed,  I  feared  lest  such 
thanks  should  be  misunderstood,  and  so  gave  it  up. 

In  Rome,  as  I  have  said,  I  did  not  see  the  book  ;  I  only 
heard  the  arrows  whiz  and  felt  their  wound,  but  I  did  not 
know  what  the  poison  was  which  lay  concealed  in  them.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  Rome  was  no  joy-bringing  city  ;  when  I 
was  there  before  I  had  also  passed  dark  and  bitter  days.  I 
was  ill,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  truly  and  bodily  ill,  and 
I  made  haste  to  get  away. 

It  was  near  Carnival  tide  that  Holst  arrived,  and  with  him 
came  our  friend,  Conrad  Rothe,  now  minister  of  Our  Lady’s 
Church  in  Copenhagen.  We  three  made  the  journey  together 
to  Naples  in  the  month  of  February. 

There  is  an  old  saying,  a  tradition  among  the  foreigners  in 
Rome,  that  the  evening  before  departure  from  Rome  one  ought 
to  go  to  the  Fontane  del  Trevi  and  drink  of  its  water,  and 
hen  one  would  be  sure  of  coming  to  Rome  again.  The 
first  time  I  went  away  from  here  I  was  prevented  from  going 
to  the  fountain  ;  I  kept  thinking  of  it  the  whole  night :  in  the 
morning  the  man  came  who  carried  my  luggage,  I  followed 
him  and  accidentally  passing  by  the  Fontane  del  Trevi,  I 
dipped  my  finger  into  the  water,  tasted  it,  and  had  faith  — ■ 
“  I  shall  come  here  again  !  ”  and  I  did.  This  time  at  our 
departure  1  disregarded  the  superstition  ;  we  started,  when 

u 


162 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


suddenly  the  diligence  turned  out  from  II  Corso,  as  we  were 
to  call  for  an  ecclesiastic  in  a  monastery,  and  we  passed  Fon- 
tane  del  Trevi,  and  it  proved  that  for  the  third  time  I  came 
to  Rome.  The  ecclesiastic  was  a  chapel-master,  a  lively  man, 
who  at  Albano  threw  off  the  clerical  dress  and  became  a  gay 
and  genteel  gentleman.  H.  P.  Holst  has  introduced  his  char¬ 
acter  in  his  Italian  sketches. 

It  was  very  cold  in  Naples;  Vesuvius  and  the  hills  about 
were  covered  with  snow.  There  was  fever  in  my  blood,  and 
I  suffered  in  soul  and  body ;  a  toothache  for  several  weeks 
had  made  me  very  nervous  ;  I  tried  to  keep  up  as  well  as  I 
could,  and  drove  with  my  countrymen  to  Herculaneum,  but 
while  they  rambled  about  in  the  excavated  city,  I  kept  still, 
oppressed  with  fever ;  it  chanced  that  they  made  a  mistake 
in  the  railway-trains,  and  instead  of  going  to  Pompeii  we  re¬ 
turned  to  Naples.  I  found  myself  so  prostrated  by  the  fever, 
that  only  by  being  bled  freely  was  my  life  saved.  The  next 
week  I  grew  sensibly  better ;  and  I  proceeded  by  a  French 
war-steamer,  the  Leonidas,  to  Greece.  On  the  shore  the  peo¬ 
ple  sang  “  Eviva  la  Gioia  !  ”  Yes,  long  live  joy  !  if  we  only 
could  reach  it. 

It  was  now  as  if  a  new  life  had  risen  for  me,  and  in  truth 
this  was  the  case ;  and  if  this  does  not  appear  legibly  in  my 
later  writings,  yet  it  manifested  itself  in  my  views  of  life,  and 
in  my  whole  inner  development.  As  I  saw  my  European 
home  lie  far  behind  me,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  a  stream  of 
forgetfulness  flowed  over  bitter  and  rankling  remembrances : 
I  felt  health  in  my  blood,  health  in  my  thoughts,  and  freshly 
and  courageously  I  again  raised  my  head. 

Naples  lay  in  the  sunlight,  the  clouds  hung  about  Vesu¬ 
vius  down  to  the  hermit’s  hut,  the  sea  was  almost  calm.  The 
night  following  I  was  roused  to  see  Stromboli  vomiting  fire 
and  mirrored  in  the  water. 

In  the  morning  we  passed  Charybdis,  and  saw  the  surf  at 
Scylla.  Sicily,  with  its  low  rocks  and  the  smoking  JE tna 
sprinkled  with  snow,  was  before  us. 

I  have  in  my  “  Bazaar  ”  spoken  of  the  voyage  along  the  sea- 
coast,  my  stay  at  Malta,  and  the  brilliant  nights  and  days  I 
spent  on  the  calm  Mediterranean  Sea,  whose  long  waves  spar- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


163 

kled  in  the  night.  The  splendor  of  the  stars  astonished  me  and 
died  me  with  admiration  ;  the  light  of  Venus  was  like  that  of 
he  moon  in  our  North,  and  made  the  objects  cast  a  shade 
on  the  surface  the  big  dolphins  tumbled  ;  on  the  ship  all 
was  gayety.  We  frolicked,  sung,  danced,  played  at  cards, 
jtnd  chatted  together,  —  Americans,  Italians,  and  Asiatics ; 
bishops  and  monks,  officers  and  travellers. 

A  few  days  of  living  together  on  the  sea  make  close  fellow¬ 
ship.  I  was  as  at  home,  and  it  was  therefore  a  real  grief  to 
me  to  leave  the  ship  at  Syra.  The  French  steamboat  line  from 
Marseilles  to  Constantinople  crosses  at  the  island  of  Syra  that 
of  the  line  between  Alexandria  and  Piraeus.  I  must  therefore 
here  go  on  board  a  ship  from  Egypt,  and  was  the  only  one,  ex¬ 
cept  a  Persian  from  Herat,  who  left  the  Leonidas  at  Syra. 

The  city  looked  like  a  city  of  tents,  —  like  a  camp,  — for 
large  sails  to  keep  off  the  sun  were  stretched  from  one  house 
to  another.  The  shore  had  a  pretty  white  and  red  aspect,  for  a 
crowd  of  Greeks  with  red  jackets  and  white  “  fostanelles  ”  were 
gathered  there.  The  Greek  steamer  which  usually  makes  the 
passage  between  Syra  and  Pirrnus  was*  repairing,  and  therefore 
I  went  on  board  that  from  Alexandria  which  had  just  arrived, 
and  would  not  stay  in  quarantine  more  than  a  couple  of  days 
on  its  arrival  at  Piraeus.  In  my  “  Bazaar  ”  I  have  given 
a  series  of  pictures  of  the  voyage,  to  which  I  must  refer,  and 
may  therefore  here  make  a  quicker  flight  through  the  coun¬ 
tries. 

In  the  harbor  of  Piraeus,  where  we  had  dropped  anchor  and 
passed  quarantine,  a  boat  came  up  to  the  ship  filled  with 
Danes  and  Germans.  The  “  Allgemeine  Zeitung  ”  had  told 
them  that  I  was  to  arrive  ;  they  rowed  up  to  the  ship  to  bring 
me  their  welcome,  and  when  the  quarantine  was  finished  they 
called  for  me  at  Piraeus,  and  with  a  Greek  servant  in  national 
dress  we  drove  through  the  olive  woods  up  to  Athens,  whose 
Lycabettos  and  Acropolis  I  had  already  had  in  view  for  along 
time.  The  Dutch  Consul,  Travers,  was  also  Danish  Consul, 
and  spoke  Danish.  The  chaplain  to  the  King,  Liith,  was  from 
Holstein  :  he  had  married  a  young  Danish  lady  from  Fredens* 
borg,  and  was  also  among  my  new  friends. 

Liith  told  me  that  he  had  learnt  Danisn  by  reading  my 


THE  SIORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


164 

"  Improvisatore  ”  in  the  original.  I  met  here  our  countrymas 
Koeppen,  the  architects,  the  brothers  Hansen,  and  the  Hoi 
steiner  Professor  Ross.  The  Danish  language  was  heard  in 
the  royal  city  of  Greece,  and  champagne  popped  for  Denmark 
and  for  me. 

I  remained  a  month  at  Athens.  My  friends  would  have 
arranged  a  feast  for  me  on  my  birthday,  the  second  of  April,  by 
visiting  Mount  Parnassus  ;  but  winter  had  set  in,  a  heavy  snow 
had  fallen,  and  I  celebrated  my  birthday  on  the  Acropolis. 
Among  the  dearest  and  most  interesting  acquaintances  I 
made  at  Athens  was  that  of  Prokesch-Ostens,  the  resident 
Austrian  minister,  already  at  that  time  known  by  his  “  Memo¬ 
ries  of  Egypt  and  Asia  Minor,”  and  his  “  Travels  in  the  Holy 
Land.”  Consul  Travers  presented  me  to  the  King  and  Queen. 
I  made  several  very  interesting  trips  from  here  ;  I  spent  the 
Greek  Easter  here,  and  the  Feast  of  Liberty,  of  which  I  have 
tried  to  give  a  picture. 

Like  another  Switzerland,  with  a  loftier  and  clearer  heaven 
than  the  Italian,  Greece  lay  before  me :  nature  made  a  deep 
and  solemn  impression  upon  me.  I  felt  the  sentiment  of  stand¬ 
ing  on  the  great  battle-field  of  the  world,  where  nation  had 
striven  with  nation,  and  had  perished.  No  single  poem  can 
embrace  such  greatness  ;  every  scorched-up  bed  of  a  stream, 
every  height,  every  stone,  has  mighty  memoirs  to  relate.  How 
little  appear  the  inequalities  of  daily  life  in  such  a  place.  A 
kingdom  of  ideas  streamed  through  me,  and  with  such  a  full¬ 
ness  that  none  of  them  fixed  themselves  on  paper.  I  had  a 
desire  to  express  the  idea,  that  the  godlike  was  here  on  earth 
to  maintain  its  contest ;  that  it  is  thrust  backward,  and  yet  ad* 
Vances  again  victoriously  through  all  ages  ;  and  I  found  in  the 
legend  of  the  “  Wandering  Jew  ”  an  occasion  for  it.  For  twelve 
months  this  fiction  had  been  emerging  from  the  sea  of  my 
thoughts  ;  often  did  it  wholly  fill  me  ;  sometimes  I  fancied 
with  the  alchemists  that  I  had  dug  up  the  treasure ;  then 
again  it  sank  suddenly,  and  I  despaired  of  ever  being  able  to 
bring  it  to  the  light.  I  felt  what  a  mass  of  knowledge  of  va¬ 
rious  kinds  I  must  first  acquire.  Often  at  home,  when  I  was 
compelled  to  hear  reproofs  on  what  they  call  a  want  of  study 
l  had  sal  deep  into  the  night,  and  had  studied  history  ir 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  I  65 

Hegel's  “  Philosophy  of  History.”  I  said  nothing  of  .his,  or 
other  studies  would  immediately  have  been  spoken  of,  :n  the 
manner  of  an  instructive  lady,  who  said,  that  people  justly  com¬ 
plained  that  I  did  not  possess  learning  enough.  “  You  have 
really  no  mythology,”  said  she  ;  “  in  all  your  poems  there  ap¬ 
pears  no  single  god.  You  must  pursue  mythology;  you  must 
lead  Racine  and  Corneille.”  That  she  called  learning;  and 
in  like  manner  every  one  had  something  peculiar  to  recom¬ 
mend.  For  my  poem  of  “  Ahasuerus  ”  I  had  read  much  and 
noted  much,  but  yet  not  enough  ;  in  Greece,  I  thought,  the 
whole  will  collect  itself  into  clearness.  The  poem  is  not  yet 
ready,  but  I  hope  that  it  will  become  so  to  my  honor;  for  it 
happens  with  children  of  the  spirit  as  with  the  earthly  ones, 
they  grow  as  they  sleep. 

The  twenty-first  of  April  I  again  sailed  from  Piraeus  to 
Syra, where  I  went  on  board  the  French  steamship  Thamses, 
from  Marseilles  to  Constantinople.  We  had  very  rough  weather 
in  the  Archipelago  ;  I  thought  of  shipwreck  and  death,  and 
having  the  conviction  that  all  was  over,  I  was  filled  with  a 
strange  feeling  of  rest,  and  lay  down  in  my  berth,  while  others 
around  me  were  moaning  and  praying.  All  was  crashing  and 
cracking,  but  I  fell  asleep,  and  when  I  awoke  we  were  safe  and 
sound  at  Smyrna.  Another  quarter  of  the  globe  lay  before 
me.  In  truth  I  felt  a  devotion  at  treading  it  like  that  which  1 
felt  as  a  child  when  I  entered  the  old  church  of  Saint  Knud 
at  Odense.  I  thought  on  Christ,  who  bled  on  this  earth  ;  I 
thought  on  Homer,  whose  song  eternally  resounds  hence  over 
the  earth.  The  shores  of  Asia  preached  to  me  their  sermons, 
and  were,  perhaps,  more  impressive  than  any  sermon  in  any 
church  can  be. 

Smyrna  looked  very  grand  with  its  pointed,  red  roofs,  as  in 
the  North  ;  there  were  but  few  minarets  ;  the  streets  were 
narrow,  like  those  of  Venice/  An  ostrich  and.  a  camel  came 
along,  and  for  both  the  people  were  compelled  to  step  aside 
into  the  open  houses.  There  was  a  swarming  crowd  of  people 
in  the  streets  :  Turkish  women,  who  only  showed  their  eyes 
and  tip  of  the  nose;  Jews  and  Armenians,  with  white  and 
black  hats,  some  of  which  had  the  form  of  a  bean-pot  upside 
down.  The  consuls  had  run  out  from  their  houses  the  re- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  66 

spective  flags  of  their  countries  ;  in  the  bay  lay  a  smoking 
Turkish  steamer,  with  the  crescent  on  its  green  flag. 

In  the  evening  we  left  Smyrna:  the  new  moon  threw  its  light 
upon  the  mound  of  Achilles’s  tomb  on  the  plains  of  Troy.  At 
six  o’clock  in  the  morning  we  entered  the  Dardanelles :  upon 
the  European  side  lay  a  red-roofed  town  with  windmills  and  a 
fine  fortress  ;  upon  the  Asiatic  side  a  smallei  fortress.  The 
distance  between  these  two  parts  of  the  world  seemed  to  me 
to  be  that  of  the  Sound  between  Helsingor  and  Helsingborg. 
The  captain  judged  it  to  be  two  and  three  quarters  lieu*. 
Gallipoli,  where  we  entered  the  Sea  of  Marmora,  has  an 
entirely  Northern,  gloomy  look  :  there  were  old  houses  with 
balconies  and  wooden  terraces ;  the  rocks  around  were  low, 
but  had  a  naked,  wild  aspect ;  there  was  a  heavy  sea,  and  to¬ 
ward  the  evening  rain  fell.  The  next  morning  the  magnificent 
0 

city  of  Constantinople  lay  before  us,  —  a  Venice  risen  out  of 
the  sea.  One  mosque  more  splendid  than  another  rose  to  our 
view;  the  Seraglio  lay  light  and  swimming  before  us.  The 
sun  burst  forth  and  shone  upon  the  Asiatic  shores,  the  first 
cypress  woods  I  had  seen,  and  upon  the  minarets  of  Scutari. 
It  was  an  enchanting  view  !  There  was  a  crying  and  halloaing 
of  people  in  the  small,  rocking  boats  with  which  it  swarmed  ; 
majestic  looking  Turks  carried  our  baggage. 

In  Constantinople  I  passed  eleven  interesting  days  ;  and 
according  to  my  goud  fortune  in  travel,  the  birthday  of 
Mohammed  itself  fell  exactly  during  my  stay  there.  I  saw  the 
grand  illumination,  which  completely  transported  me  into  the 
“Thousand  and  One  Nights.” 

Our  Danish  ambassador  lived  several  miles  from  Constants 
nople,  and  I  had  therefore  no  opportunity  of  seeing  him  ;  but 
I  found  a  cordial  reception  with  the  Austrian  internuncius, 
Baron  Stiirmer.  With  him  I  had  a  German  home  and  friends. 
I  contemplated  making  my  return  by  the  Black  Sea  and  up 
the  Danube  ;  but  the  country  was  disturbed  ;  it  was  said  there 
had  been  several  thousand  Christians  murdered.  My  compan¬ 
ions  of  the  voyage,  in  the  hotel  where  I  resided,  gave  up  this 
route  of  the  Danube,  for  which  I  had  the  greatest  desire,  and 
collectively  counseled  me  against  it.  But  in  this  case  I  must 
’■eturn  again  b}  Greece  and  Italy  —  it  was  a  severe  conflict. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


167 

I  do  not  belong  to  the  courageous  ;  I  feel  fear,  especially  in 
little  dangers ;  but  in  great  ones,  and  when  an  advantage  is  to 
be  won,  then  I  have  a  will,  and  it  has  grown  firmer  with  years. 
I  may  tremble,  I  may  fear  ;  but  I  still  do  that  which  I  con¬ 
sider  the  most  proper  "o  be  done.  I  am  not  ashamed  to  con¬ 
fess  my  weakness ;  I  hold  that  when  out  of  our  own  true  con¬ 
viction  we  run  counter  to  our  inborn  fear,  we  have  done  our 
duty.  I  had  a  strong  desire  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
interior  of  the  country,  and  to  traverse  the  Danube  in  its 
greatest  expansion.  I  battled  with  myself ;  my  imagination 
pointed  to  me  the  most  horrible  circumstances  ;  it  was  an 
anxious  night.  In  the  morning  I  took  counsel  with  Baron 
Sturmer,  and  as  he  was  of  opinion  that  I  might  undertake 
the  voyage,  I  determined  upon  it.  From  the  moment  that  1 
had  taken  my  determination  I  had  the  most  immovable  reliance 
on  Providence,  and  flung  myself  calmly  on  my  fate.  The 
fourth  of  May  I  went  on  board  the  ship,  which  lay  by  the 
garden  of  the  Seraglio. 

Early  in  the  morning,  when  we  weighed  anchor,  we  heard 
the  sad  news  that  the  large  Austrian  steamship,  which  we  had 
expected  to  meet  us,  had  struck  upon  a  rock  the  night  before  in 
the  fog  in  the  Black  Sea,  and  was  totally  wrecked.  We  passed 
through  the  strange-looking  Bosphorus,  suffered  heavy  seas  and 
foggy  weather,  stopped  one  day  at  the  city  of  Kostendsche, 
near  the  decayed  rampart  of  Trajan,  and  rode  in  big  carriages 
of  basket-work,  drawn  by  white  oxen,  along  the  desolate  coun¬ 
try,  where  wild  dogs  were  strolling  about.  Only  the  tumbled 
down  tombstones  of  two  cemeteries  showed  us  that  here  had 
been  towns,  which  were  burnt  by  the  Russians  in  the  War  of 
1809.  It  was  the  city  of  Dobrudscha.  We  spent  two  days  in 
passing  over  the  whole  remarkable  seat  of  war  of  the  Russians 
ind  Turks.  I  have  thus  in  my  head  the  best  map  I  could 
obtain  of  the  Danube  territory,  —  the  clearest  idea  of  the 
miserable  small  towns  and  ruined  fortresses  ;  I  saw  whole 
ruins  of  fortifications,  built  of  earth  and  basket-work.  We  did 
not  hear  anything  of  the  disturbances  in  the  country  until  we 
reached  Rustschuk,  with  its  many  minarets.  The  shore  was 
crowded  with  people :  two  Frankish-dressed  young  men  were 
thrown  into  the  Danube  ;  they  swam  toward  land  ;  one  of  them 


£68 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


reached  it,  but  the  other,  who  was  stoned,  swam  out  toward  us 
and  cried  out :  “  Help  !  they  are  killing  me  !  ”  We  stopped  in 
the  middle  of  the  river,  got  him  up,  and  made  signals  by  a 
cannon-shot.  The  pasha  of  the  city  came  on  board  and  took 
the  poor  Frank  under  his  protection. 

From  the  ship  we  saw  next  day  the  Balkan  Mountains, 
covered  with  snow  ;  between  them  and  us  the  revolt  was  raging. 
In  the  night  we  heard  that  an  armed  Tartar,  who  carried  letters 
and  dispatches  from  Widdin  to  Constantinople,  was  attacked 
and  killed  ;  another,  I  believe,  had  the  same  fate.  The  third 
got  his  escort  scattered,  escaped  from  it  himself,  and  came 
down  to  the  Danube,  where,  hidden  among  the  reeds,  he  had 
awaited  the  arrival  of  our  steamship.  The  man,  in  his  sheep¬ 
skin  clothes,  just  coming  out  of  the  mire,  and  armed  to  the 
teeth,  as  we  call  it,  looked  horribly  when  we  at  lamp-light  be¬ 
held  him  coming  on  board  ;  he  travelled  with  us  a  whole 
day  up  the  Danube. 

At  Widdin,  the  strong  fortress  of  the  Turks,  we  went 
ashore,  but  not  before  we  were  well  fumigated  so  that  we  might 
not  bring  any  contagions  from  Constantinople.  Hussein-Pasha, 
who  resided  here,  sent  us  all  the  last  copies  of  “  Allgemeine 
Zeitung*”  so  that  we  got  our  best  information  about  the  condi¬ 
tion  of  the  country  from  the  German  side.  Servia  looked  like 
a  primitive  woodland  ;  we  travelled  in  small  boats  for  many 
miles  the  rushing  and  foaming  Danube,  —  through  the  “  iron 
gate,”  as  they  call  that  part  of  the  river.  I  have  in  my  “  Ba¬ 
zaar  ”  given  a  picture  of  it. 

At  Old  Orsova  we  had  to  pass  quarantine.  The  building 
was  only  arranged  to  receive  Wallachian  peasants,  and  not 
travellers  with  more  wants  ;  almost  all  the  rooms  were  paved ; 
the  provisions  horrid,  the  wine  still  worse.  I  shared  a  room 
with  the  Englishman,  Mr.  Ainsworth,  a  brother  of  the  writer, 
who  was  on  his  way  home  from  his  travels  in  Kurdistan. 
When  “  A  Poet’s  Bazaar  ”  was  published  afterward  in  Lon¬ 
don,  Mr.  Ainsworth  wrote  in  the  “Literary  Gazette  ”  of  ioth 
October,  1846,  at  the  editor’s  suggestion,  an  account  of  oui 
*tay  in  quarantine,  where  his  appreciation  of  me  is  very  kindl) 
expressed,  and  places  me,  perhaps,  in  too  good  a  light.  He  re 
ates  that  I  was  “  verv  skillful  in  cutting  out  paper.  The  draw 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  1 69 

ings  of  the  Mewlewis,  or  leaping  dervishes,  in  my  Asiatic  trav 
els,  are  from  cuttings  of  his.” 

After  having  passed  quarantine  we  crossed  the  military  fron¬ 
tier,  under  lofty  chestnut-trees  ;  past  relics  of  the  time  of  the 
Romans,  by  ruins  of  bridges,  towers,  and  the  grand  “  Trajan 
tablet”  in  the  rocky  wall.  Picturesque  groups  of  Wallachian 
peasants  were  varied  by  Austrian  soldiers  in  great  numbers, 
and  gypsy  bands  encamped  in  caves  of  the  rocks.  One  pic¬ 
ture  followed  another,  but  when  we  came  again  on  board  the 
steamship,  it  was  so  thronged  with  people  that  we  could 
scarcely  move.  All  were  going  to  the  great  fair  at  Pesth  ; 
the  passage  was  a  long,  sleepless,  and  difficult  one,  but  we 
had  a  good  view  of  the  Hungarian  people.  The  country  be 
came  more  and  more  flat,  and  had  no  longer  its  former  rich 
variety,  which  it  again  displayed  afterward  nearer  Presburg. 
The  town  of  Theben  was  in  flames  when  we  passed.  I  ar¬ 
rived  at  the  imperial  city  of  Vienna  on  the  twenty- first  day  of 
the  journey,  and  landed  at  the  Prater.  I  visited  old  friends, 
and  soon,  by  way  of  Prague  and  Dresden,  the  journey  turned 
homeward. 

It  seemed  to  me  very  characteristic  that  during  the  whole 
journey  from  Italy  by  Greece  and  Turkey  to  Hamburg  my 
trunk  was  only  twice  searched,  namely,  at  the  Austrian  and 
the  German  frontier,  while  it  was  examined  not  less  than  five 
times  before  I  entered  my  room  at  Copenhagen.  They 
searched  it  first  on  my  arrival  in  Holstein,  then  at  Aroesound, 
again  at  my  landing  in  Funen,  next  at  Slagelse,  when  I  left 
the  diligence,  and  at  last  when  I  came  with  the  stage-coach 
to  Copenhagen  ;  such  was  the  custom  at  that  time. 

On  my  arrival  at  Hamburg  there  was  a  great  musical  festival. 

I  met  many  countrymen  at  the  table  d'hote,  and  while  speak¬ 
ing  to  my  friends  of  the  beautiful  Greece,  of  the  rich  Orient, 
an  old  Copenhagen  lady  addressed  me  with  the  words:  — 

“  Mr.  Andersen,  have  you  on  your  many  and  long  travels 
sver  seen  anything  abroad  so  beautiful  as  our  little  Den¬ 
mark  ?  ” 

“  Indeed  1  have  !  ”  answered  f  :  “I  have  seen  many  things 
rar  more  beautiful !  ” 

“  Fie  !  ”  exclaimed  she,  “  you  are  no  patriot !  ” 


170 


THE  STORY  OR  MY  LIFE. 


I  passed  through  Odense  just  at  the  time  of  St.  Knud’s 
Fair.  “  I  am  very  glad,”  said  a  respectable  lady  of  Funen, 
“that  you  have  arranged  your  great  journey  so  as  to  come 
to  the  fair.  I  see  that  you  keep  to  Odense :  that  I  have  al 
ways  said  !  ”  So  there  I  passed  for  a  patriot !  • 

Arriving  at  Slagelse,  the  town  of  my  school  days,  I  wai 
strangely  affected  and  surprised  at  meeting  with  some  old 
friends.  When  I  was  scholar  there  I  used  to  see  Pastor  Bas- 
tholm  with  his  wife  every  evening  taking  the  same  walk, 
—  from  the  back  gate  of  their  garden  along  the  pathwa) 
over  the  corn-field,  and  returning  by  the  great  road.  Now, 
several  years  after,  returning  from  Greece  and  Turkey,  and 
driving  on  the  highway  of  Slagelse,  I  saw  the  old  couple 
taking  their  usual  little  walk  through  the  corn-field.  It  af¬ 
fected  me  strangely.  They  went  there  still  year  after  year  the 
same  way,  and  I  had  flown  so  far,  far  about.  The  great  con¬ 
trast  between  us  was  strangely  brought  into  my  thoughts. 

In  the  middle  of  August,  1841,  I  was  again  in  Copenhagen, 
and  this  time  without  anxiety  or  suffering,  as  on  my  first  re¬ 
turn  from  Italy.  I  was  very  glad  to  see  again  all  my  dear 
friends,  and  with  a  sincere  heart  I  exclaimed  :  The  first  mo¬ 
ment  of  return  is  the  bouquet  of  the  whole  journey  !  ”  There 
I  wrote  my  recollections  of  travel,  under  the  title  of  “A  Poet’s 
Bazaar,”  in  several  chapters,  according  to  the  countries.  In 
various  places  abroad  I  had  met  with  individuals,  as  at  home, 
to  whom  I  felt  myself  attached.  The  poet  is  like  a  bird  ;  he 
gives  what  he  has,  and  he  gives  a  song.  I  was  desirous  of 
giving  every  one  of  those  dear  ones  such  a  song.  It  was  a 
fugitive  idea,  born,  may  I  venture  to  say,  in  a  grateful  mood. 
Count  Rantzau-Breitenburg,  who  had  resided  in  Italy,  who 
loved  the  land,  and  was  become  a  friend  and  benefactor  to  me 
through  my  “  Improvisator, ”  must  love  that  part  of  the  book 
which  treated  of  his  country.  To  Liszt  and  Thalberg,  who 
had  both  shown  me  the  greatest  friendship,  I  dedicated  the 
portion  which  contained  the  voyage  up  the  Danube,  because 
one  was  a  Hungarian  and  the  other  an  Austrian.  With  these 
indications,  the  reader  will  easily  be  able  to  trace  out  the 
thought  which  influenced  me  in  the  choice  of  each  dedication 
But  these  appropjtfations  were,  in  my  native  country,  regarded 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  171 

as  a  fresh  proof  of  my  vanity  :  “  I  wished  to  figure  with  great 
names,  —  to  name  distinguished  people  as  my  friends.” 

The  book  has  been  translated  into  several  languages,  and 
*■116  dedications  with  it.  I  know  not  how  they  have  been  re¬ 
garded  abroad ;  if  I  had  been  judged  there  us  in  Denmark,  I 
hope  that  this  explanation  will  change  the  opinion  concerning 
them.  In  Denmark  my  “  Bazaar  ”  procured  me  the  most  hand¬ 
some  remuneration  that  I  had  as  yet  received,  —  a  proof  thal 
I  was  at  length  read  there.  No  regular  criticism  appeared 
upon  it,  if  one  excepts  notices  in  some  daily  papers,  and  after¬ 
ward  in  the  poetical  attempt  of  a  young  writer  who,  a  yeai 
before,  had  testified  in  writing  his  love  for  me,  and  his  wish  to 
do  me  honor  ;  but  who  now,  in  his  first  public  appearance, 
launched  his  satirical  poem  against  his  friend.  I  was  personally 
attached  to  this  young  man,  and  am  so  still.  He  assuredly 
thought  more  of  the  popularity  he  would  gain  by  sailing  in 
the  wake  of  Heiberg,  than  on  the  pain  he  would  inflict  on  me. 

The  newspaper  criticism  in  Copenhagen  was  infinitely  stu 
pid.  It  was  set  down  as  exaggerated,  that  I  could  have  seen 
the  whole  round  blue  globe  of  the  moon  in  Smyrna  at  the 
time  of  the  new  moon.  That  was  called  fancy  and  extrava¬ 
gance  which  there  every  one  sees  who  can  open  his  eyes. 
The  new  moon  has  a  dark-blue  and  perfectly  round  disk. 

The  Danish  critics  have  generally  no  open*  eye  for  nature  : 
even  that  very  cultivated  “  Monthly  Periodical  of  Literature  ” 
in  Denmark  censured  me  once,  because  in  a  poem  I  had  de¬ 
scribed  a  rainbow  by  moonlight.  That  too  was  my  fancy, 
which,  said  they,  carried  me  too  far.  When  I  said  in  the 
“  Bazaar,”  “  If  I  were  a  painter,  I  would  paint  this  bridge ; 

ut,  as  I  am  no  painter,  but  a  poet,  I  must  therefore  speak,” 
ttc:  the  critic  says,  “  He  is  so  vain,  that  he  tells  us  himself 
that  he  is  a  poet.”  There  is  something  so  pitiful  in  such 
criticism,  that  one  cannot  be  wounded  by  it ;  but  even  when  we 
are  the  most  peaceable  of  men,  we  feel  a  desire  to  flagellate 
such  wet  dogs,  who  come  into  our  rooms  and  lay  themselves 
down  in  the  best  places  there.  There  might  be  a  whole 
Tool’s  Chronicle  written  of  all  the  absurd  and  shameless 
things  which,  from  my  first  appearance  before  the  public  till 
this  moment,  I  have  been  coihpeh  -d  to  hear. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


172 

In  the  mean  time  the  “  Bazaar  ”  was  much  read,  and  made 
what  is  called  a  hit.  I  received,  connected  with  this  book, 
much  encouragement  and  many  recognitions  from  individuals 
of  the  highest  distinction  in  the  realms  of  intellect  in  my  na¬ 
tive  land. 

Several  editions  of  that  book  have  since  been  published, 
and  it  has  been  translated  into  German,  and  into  Swedish 
and  English,  and  it  has  been  received  with  great  favor.  The 
English  edition  in  three  volumes,  with  my  portrait,  was  pub¬ 
lished  by  Richard  Bentley  in  London,  and  was  very  gener¬ 
ously  noticed  in  English  papers  and  reviews.  The  English 
publisher  sent  to  Christian  VIII.  a  beautifully  bound  copy  of 
that  book  and  of  my  earlier  published  writings.  They  did  the 
same  in  Germany,  and  the  king  appreciated  highly  the  great 

consideration  they  showed  me  abroad.  I  know  that  he  ex- 

•  • 

pressed  it  to  H.  C.  Orsted  and  many  others,  while  he  uttered 
his  astonishment  at  the  opposition  I  still  met  at  home,  at  the 
constant  effort  to  bring  into  prominence  my  weak  side  and 
efface  the  impression  of  the  good,  and  at  the  pleasure  people 
took  in  mocking  at  and  depreciating  my  activity.  It  made  me 
happy  to  hear  this,  and  the  more  as  it  came  from  H.  C.  Or¬ 
sted,  the  only  man  of  all  my  intimate  and  sympathizing  friendc 
vvho  clearly  and  distinctly  expressed  his  appreciation  of  my 
poetical  ability  and  strongly  encouraged  me,  while  he  pre¬ 
dicted  that  there  ought  to  come  and  would  come  a  better 
time  for  me  at  home,  when  I  should  be  acknowledged,  and 
should  feel  myself  as  well  satisfied  with  the  judgment  I  re¬ 
ceived  as  I  now  ought  to  be  at  that  which  came  from  abroad. 

We  often  talked  together  of  what  was  the  real  cause  that  I 
must  struggle  so  much  and  so  long,  and  we  agreed  touching 
many  probable  causes.  The  fault  might  perhaps  lie  m  my 
poverty  at  first,  and  my  desponding  tone  to  people.  They 
could  not  forget,  as  was  also  remarked  abroad,  that  they 
had  seen  me  as  a  poor  boy  running  about  and  growing  up. 
Some  fault  might  perhaps  also  lie,  as  remarked  by  my  biog 
raplier  in  the  “  Danish  Pantheon,”  in  that  I  did  not  know  of 
nor  use  the  means  most  authors  make  use  of  in  order  tc 
profit  by  society  ;  add  to  this,  whgit  also  H.  C.  Orsted  deplored 
that  the  highly  esteemed  Monthly  showed  severity  and  wan* 


THE  STOR\  OF  MY  LIFE. 


173 


of  good-will  toward  me  ;  and  finally  the  contempt  of  the  *c  Let¬ 
ters  from  the  Dead,”  the  critiques  in  the  newspapers,  which 
followed  the  fashion  ;  in  short,  the  printed  public  judgment, 
which  used  its  power  among  us  and  made  us  bow  to  its  au¬ 
thority.  Besides,  we  have  all  a  great  sense  of  the  ludicrous, 
and  I  had  the  ill  fortune  to  be  set  in  a  ridiculous  light  by  sev¬ 
eral  awkward  but  very  well  meant  articles. 

It  was  a  time  when  the  newspapers  in  my  native  city, 
Odense,  always  called  me  “  Our  city’s  child,”  and  gave  infor¬ 
mation  about  me  which  could  not  be  of  any  interest  to  the 
public.  Extracts  were  given  from  my  private  letters  when  I 
was  abroad,  which  became  ridiculous  when  given  in  the  news¬ 
paper  :  thus,  for  instance,  when  I  once  wrote  home  from  Rome 
that  I  had  seen  Queen  Christina  in  the  chapel  of  Pope  Sixtus, 
and  added  that  she  put  me  in  mind  of  the  wife  of  the  com¬ 
poser  Hartmann,  it  was  reported  in  the  Funen  newspaper  that 
“Queen  Christina  resembled  a  certain  lady  in  Copenhagen.” 
Of  course  they  laughed  at  that.  How  often  have  I  experi¬ 
enced  the  awkward  friendship  that  vexes  us.  From  that  time 
until  now  I  have  always  feared  to  speak  of  such  things  to  a 
thoughtless  news-writer,  and  yet  I  have  not  escaped.  I  was 
afterward  again  ridiculed  when  it  was  no  fault  of  mine.  I 
was  on  a  journey,  and  stopped  for  half  an  hour  at  the  Odense 
post-office,  where  a  news-writer  asked  me,  — 

“  Are  you  going  abroad  now?  ” 

“  No,”  I  answered. 

“  Do  you  not  expect  to  ?  ” 

“  It  depends  on  whether  I  can  get  money.  I  am  writing  a 
piece  for  the  theatre ;  if  it  proves  successful  I  presume  I  shall 
go  away.” 

“  Where  will  you  then  go  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  yet  know  ;  either  to  Spain  or  to  Greece,  I  think.’5 

The  same  evening  I  read  in  the  newspaper  a  paragraph  to 
the  effect  that  —  “  H.  C.  Andersen  is  writing  a  piece  for  the 
theatre  :  should  it  prove  to  be  successful  he  is  going  abroad, 
either  to  Spain  or  to  Greece.” 

Of  course  I  was  ridiculed,  and  a  Copenhagen  newspaper 
was  right  in  saying  that  my  journey  was  rather  a  distant  pros¬ 
pect.  The  piece  was  to  be  written,  played,  and  have  its  sue- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


174 

cess,  and  then  one  could  not  be  sure  whether  my  journey 
would  be  to  Spain  or  Greece.  People  laughed,  and  one 
who  is  laughed  at  has  lost  his  cause.  I  became  depressed 
and  took  no  pains  to  conceal  it.  When  boys  throw  stones  at 
a  poor  dog  which  is  swimming  against  the  stream,  it  is  not 
because  they  are  wicked  but  because  they  think  it  fun,  and 
people  had  similar  sport  with  me.  I  had  no  defenders,  I  did 
not  belong  to  any  party,  I  had  no  newspaper-writing  friends, 
and  therefore  I  was  compelled  to  do  as  I  did.  In  the  mean 
time  it  was  said  and  written  and  frequently  repeated,  that  I 
lived  only  in  the  company  of  my  admirers  !  How  little  they 
knew  about  it.  What  I  here  must  present  is  no  complaint ;  I 
will  not  cast  a  particle  of  shade  over  the  many  whom  I  really 
love  ;  I  am  sure  that  if  I  had  fallen  into  great  need  and 
trouble,  they  would  have  put  forth  all  their  endeavor  not  to 
let  me  go  under,  but  a  poetic  nature  needs  sympathy  of  an¬ 
other  kind,  and  of  that  I  have  been  very  much  in  want.  My 
dearest  friends  have  as  severely  and  loudly  as  any  critic  ex¬ 
pressed  their  surprise  at  the  appreciation  my  works  have  re¬ 
ceived  abroad.  Fredrika  Bremer  discerned  it  and  was  very 
much  astonished.  We  were  in  company  together  in  Copen¬ 
hagen  at  a  house  where  it  was  said  that  I  was  a  spoiled  child. 
She  thought  she  was  telling  something  agreeable  when  she 
said  :  “It  is  almost  incredible  how  Andersen  is  loved  in  Swe¬ 
den  from  south  to  north  ;  in  almost  every  house  we  see  his 
books  !  ” 

“Don’t  make  him  believe  such  things!”  was  the  answer, 
and  said  in  real  earnest.  Much  has  been  said  about  the  fact 
that  to  be  noble  or  of  high  birth  has  no  longer  any  signifi¬ 
cance  :  that  is  only  nonsense.  The  able  but  poor  student  is 
not  received  in  what  we  call  good  houses  with  the  same  kind¬ 
ness  as  the  well-dressed  child  of  nobility,  or  the  son  of  a  pub¬ 
lic  functionary.  I  could  illustrate  it  by  many  examples,  but  I 
will  only  give  one,  which  may  stand  for  all,  —  one  out  of  my 
own  life.  The  guilty  is  or  was  —  I  will  not  say  which  —  a 
person  highly  honored,  whose  name  I  will  omit. 

When  Christian  VIII.,  for  the  first  time  as  king,  visited 
the  theatre,  “  The  Mulatto  ”  was  played.  I  was  seated  in  the 
parquette  by  the  side  of  Thorwaldsen,  who,  when  the  curtain 
fell,  whispered  to  me :  “  The  King  is  bowing  to  you  1  ” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  I  75 

“  it  must  be  for  you  !  ”  I  answered  ;  “  it  cannot  concern 
me  I  ”  I  looked  up  to  the  royal  box  :  the  King  again  bowed, 
and  plainly  it  was  intended  for  me  ;  but  I  felt  that  a  possible 
misunderstanding  on  my  part  would  lead  to  my  being  laughed 
at  by  the  public,  and  therefore  I  sat  quietly,  and  the  next  day 
I  went  to  the  king  to  give  him  my  thanks  for  that  unusual 
favor,  and  he  teased  me  for  not  returning  his  greeting  on  the 
spot.  A  few  days  after  there  was  a  grand  bal  paree  at  the 
castle  of  Christiansborg  for  all  classes  of  the  community,  I 
had  received  a  card  of  invitation. 

“  What  shall  you  do  there  ?  ”  asked  one  of  our  elder  men 
of  learning,  when  I  spoke  of  the  festival  to  him.  “  What  do 
you  have  to  do  with  such  places  !  ”  repeated  he. 

I  answered  in  joke,  —  “  Well,  it  is  because  I  am  always  so 
well  received  in  that  circle  !  ” 

“  But  it  is  not  your  place  there  !  ”  said  he  angrily. 

There  was  nothing  for  me  but  to  answer  freely  and  laugh¬ 
ingly,  as  if  I  did  not  feel  the  sting,  — 

“  The  king  himself  has  in  the  theatre  saluted  me  from  his 
box,  so  I  think  I  may  also  go  to  his  bal  paree  !  ” 

“  Saluted  you  from  his  box,  you  say  !  ”  exclaimed  he  :  “  but 
that  does  not  prove  that  you  have  any  right  to  intrude  !  ” 

“  But  people  of  the  same  class  that  I  belong  to  will  be  at 
the  ball !  ”  added  I  more  earnestly  ;  “  students  will  be  there  !  ” 
“  Yes,  but  what  students  ?  ”  he  asked.  I  named  a  young 
student  of  the  gentleman’s  own  family. 

“  Yes,  but  that  is  different!”  replied  he  then:  “he  is  the 
son  of  a  Counselor  of  State  !  What  was  your  father  ?  ” 

My  blood  boiled  at  that.  “  My  father  was  a  tradesman  !  ” 
said  I.  “  I  have,  by  the  help  of  God  and  by  my  own  work, 
acquired  the  position  I  now  have,  and  which  you  think  honor¬ 
able  enough  I  make  no  doubt !  ”  He  never  apologized  to  me 
for  his  rudeness. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  tell  in  a  roundabout  way  of  wrong 
that  one  has  suffered,  when  the  wrong  has  not  been  malicious, 
and  I  have  throughout  my  book  felt  this  difficulty,  and  there¬ 
fore  I  have  refused  to  show  the  full  cup  of  bitterness  :  I  have 
only  let  fall  some  drops  from  it.  The  journey  had  strength¬ 
ened  me  and  I  began  to  show  indications  of  a  firmer  purpose, 


I  Jt>  THE  STORY  OF  MY  LITE. 

i  more  certain  judgment.  Many  heavy  seas  still  followed, 

aut  from  that  time  I  steadily  advanced  through  smooth  water 

'oward  the  recognition  I  could  wish  for  and  claim  of  my  own 

•  • 

country,  —  such  also  as  Orsted  had  predicted  in  his  comfort 
jog  words. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


POLITICAL  life  in  Denmark  had,  at  that  time,  arrived  at 
a  higher  development,  producing  both  good  and  evil 
fruits.  The  eloquence  which  had  formerly  accustomed  itself 
to  the  Demosthenic  mode,  —  that  of  putting  little  pebbles  in 
the  mouth,  the  little  pebbles  of  every-day  life,  —  now  exercised* 
itself  more  freely  on  subjects  of  greater  interest.  I  felt  no  cal 
thereto,  and  no  necessity  to  mix  myself  up  in  such  matters 
for  I  then  believed  that  the  politics  of  our  times  were  a  grea 
misfortune  to  many  a  poet.  Madame  Politics  is  like  Venus  : 
they  whom  she  decoys  into  her  castle  perish.  It  fares  with 
the  writings  of  these  poets  as  with  the  newspapers  :  they  are 
seized  upon,  read,  praised,  and  forgotten.  In  our  days  every 
one  wishes  to  rule ;  the  subjective  makes  its  power  of  value  ; 
people  forget  that  that  which  is  thought  of  cannot  always  be 
carried  out,  and  that  many  things  look  very  different  when 
contemplated  from  the  top  of  the  tree,  to  what  they  did  when 
seen  from  its  roots.  I  will  bow  myself  before  him  who  is  in¬ 
fluenced  by  a  noble  conviction,  and  who  only  desires  that 
which  is  conducive  to  good,  be  he  prince  or  man  of  the  people. 
Politics  are  no  affair  of  mine.  God  has  imparted  to  me 
another  mission  :  that  I  felt,  and  that  I  feel  still. 

I  met  in  the  so-called  first  families  of  the  country  a  number 
of  friendly,  kind-hearted  men,  who  valued  the  good  that  was 
in  me,  received  me  into  their  circles,  and  permitted  me  to 
participate  in  the  happiness  of  their  opulent  summer  resi¬ 
dences  ;  so  that,  still  feeling  independent,  I  could  thoroughly 
give  myself  up  to  the  pleasures  of  nature,  the  solitude  of 
woods,  and  country  life.  There  for  the  first  time  I  lived 
wholly  among  the  scenery  of  Denmark,  and  there  I  wrote  the 
greater  number  of  my  fairy  tales.  On  the  banks  of  quiet 
lakes,  amid  the  woods,  on  the  green  grassy  pastures,  where 
the  game  sprang  past  me,  and  the  stork  paced  along  oh  his 

12 


178  *  ‘  THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 

red  legs,  I  heard  nothing  of  politics,  nothing  of  pi  lemics  ;  I 
heard  no  one  practicing  himself  in  Hegel’s  phraseology.  Na¬ 
ture,  which  was  around  me,  and  within  me,  preached  to  me  of 
my  calling.  I  spent  many  happy  days  at  the  old  house  of 
Gisselfeld,  formerly  a  monastery,  which  stands  in  the  deepest 
solitude  of  the  woods,  surrounded  by  lakes  and  hills.  The 
possessor  of  this  fine  place,  the  old  Countess  Danneskjold, 
mother  of  the  Duchess  of  Augustenburg,  was  an  agreeable 
and  excellent  lady.  I  was  there  not  as  a  poor  child  of  the 
people,  but  as  a  cordially  received  guest.  The  beeches  now 
overshadow  her  grave  in  the  midst  of  that  pleasant  scenery 
to  which  her  heart  was  allied. 

Close  by  Gisselfeld,  but  in  a  still  finer  situation,  and  of 
much  greater  extent,  lies  the  estate  of  Bregentved,  which  be- 
belongs  to  Count  Moltke,  Danish  Minister  of  Finance.  The 
hospitality  which  I  met  with  in  this  place,  one  of  the  richest 
and  most  beautiful  of  our  country,  and  the  happy,  social  life 
which  surrounded  me  here,  have  diffused  a  sunshine  over  my 
life. 

It  may  appear,  perhaps,  as  if  I  desired  to  bring  the  names 
of  great  people  prominently  forward,  and  make  a  parade  of 
them  ;  or  as  if  I  wished  in  this  way  to  offer  a  kind  of  thanks 
to  my  benefactors.  They  need  it  not,  and  I  should  be 
obliged  to  mention  many  other  names  still  if  this  were  my  in¬ 
tention.  I  speak,  however,  only  of  these  two  places,  and  of 
Nyso,  which  belongs  to  Baron  Stampe,  and  which  has  become 
celebrated  through  Thorwaldsen.  Here  I  lived  much  with 
the  great  sculptor,  and  here  I  became  acquainted  with  one  of 
my  dearest  young  friends,  the  future  possessor  of  the  place. 

Knowledge  of  life  in  these  various  circles  has  had  great  in¬ 
fluence  on  me  :  among  princes,  among  the  nobility,  and  among 
the  poorest  of  the  people,  I  have  met  with  specimens  of  noble 
humanity.  We  all  of  us  resemble  each  other  in  that  which 
is  good  and  best. 

Winter  life  in  Denmark  has  likewise  its  attractions  and  its 
rich  variety.  I  spent  also  some  time  in  the  country  during 
this  season,  and  made  myself  acquainted  with  its  peculiar 
characteristics.  The  greatest  part  of  my  time,  however,  I 
passed  in  Copenhngen.  I  felt  myself  at  home  with  the  mar 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


179 

ried  sons  and  daughters  of  Collin,  where  a  number  of  amiable 
children  were  growing  up.  Every  year  strengthened  the  bond 
of  friendship  between  myself  and  the  nobly  gifted  composer 
Hartmann  :  art  and  the  freshness  of  nature  prospered  in  his 
house.  Collin  was  my  counselor  in  practical  life,  and  Or- 
sted  in  my  literary  affairs.  The  theatre  was,  if  I  may  say  so, 
my  club.  1  visited  it  every  evening,  and  in  this  very  year  I 
had  received  a  place  in  the  so-called  court  stalls.  An  author 
must,  as  a  matter  of  course,  work  himself  up  to  it.  After  the 
first  accepted  piece  he  obtains  admission  to  the  pit ;  after  the 
second  greater  work,  in  the  stalls,  where  the  actors  have  their 
seats ;  and  after  three  larger  works,  or  a  succession  of  lesser 
pieces,  the  poet  is  advanced  to  the  best  places.  Here  were  to 
be  found  Thorwaldsen,  Oehlenschlager,  and  several  older 
poets  ;  and  here  also,  in  1840,  I  obtained  a  place,  after  I  had 
given  in  seven  pieces.  Whilst  Thorwaldsen  lived,  I  often,  by 
his  own  wish,  sat  at  his  side.  Oehlenschlager  was  also  my 
neighbor,  and  in  many  an  evening  hour,  when  no  one  dreamed 
of  it,  my  soul  was  steeped  in  deep  humility,  as  I  sat  between 
these  great  spirits.  The  different  periods  of  my  life  passed 
before  me  :  the  time  when  I  sat  on  the  hindmost  bench  in  the 
box  of  the  female  figurantes,  as  well  as  that  in  which,  full  of 
childish  superstition,  I  knelt  down  there  upon  the  stage  and 
repeated  the  Lord’s  Prayer,  just  before  the  very  place  where  I 
now  sat  among  the  first  and  the  most  distinguished  men.  At 
the  time,  perhaps,  when  a  countryman  of  mine  thus  thought 
of  and  passed  judgment  upon  me,  —  “  There  he  sits,  between 
the  two  great  spirits,  full  of  arrogance  and  pride  ;  ”  he  may 
now  perceive  by  this  acknowledgment  how  unjustly  he  has 
judged  me.  Humility  and  prayer  to  God  for  strength  to  de¬ 
serve  my  happiness,  filled  my  heart.  May  He  always  enable 
me  to  preserve  these  feelings  !  I  enjoyed  the  friendship  of 
Thorwaldsen  as  well  as  of  Oehlenschlager,  —  those  two  most 
distinguished  stars  in  the  horizon  of  the  North.  I  may  here 
bring  forward  their  reflected  glory  in  and  around  me. 

There  was  in  the  character  of  Oehlenschlager,  when  he  was 
not  seen  in  the  circles  of  the  great,  where  he  was  quiet  and 
reserved,  something  so  open  and  child-like,  that  no  one  could 
help  becoming  attached  to  him  He  was  of  great  importance 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  FIFE. 


180 

to  the  nation,  to  the  whole  North,  and  that  is  well  known; 
he  was  the  true-born  poet,  always  appearing  young,  and  when 
the  oldest  of  all,  surpassing  all  in  the  fertility  of  his  mind. 
He  listened  in  a  friendly  spirit  to  my  first  lyrical  productions  ; 
followed  me  with  sympathy,  and  when  the  critics  and  people 
judged  me  harshly  and  ungenerously,  he  was  the  man  who 
opposed  them  with  genuine  fervor.  One  day  he  found  me 
deeply  depressed  at  the  severe  and  bitter  treatment  I  was  re¬ 
ceiving  ;  he  pressed  me  to  his  bosom,  — 

“  Do  not  mind  those  bawlers  !  ”  said  he  ;  “  I  tell  you,  you  are 
a  true  poet !  ”  Then  he  expressed  passionately  and  warmly 
his  judgment  of  poetry  and  poets,  of  our  criticism  at  home, 
giving  me  his  full  sympathy.  He  appreciated  earnestly  and 
kindly  the  poet  who  told  fairy  tales  ;  and  I  remember  one  day, 
when  a  man  tried  to  lower  me  by  pointing  out  what  he  called 
orthographical  sins  which  he  had  discovered  in  one  of  my 
books,  Oehlenschlager  exclaimed  with  animation  :  “  But  they 
shall  be  there,  they  are  little  characteristics  which  belong  to 
him,  and  yet  are  not  at  all  the  principal  marks.  The  great 
Goethe  said  about  just  such  a  little  error,  —  ‘  Let  the  little 
wretch  stay !  ’  and  would  not  even  correct  it.” 

I  will  further  on  give  a  few  traits  of  his  character  and  of  our 
intercourse  in  the  last  few  years  of  his  life.  My  biographer 
in  the  “  Danish  Pantheon  ”  brought  me  in  contact  with  Oehlen¬ 
schlager,  when  he  said  :  “  In  our  days  it  is  becoming  more  and 
more  rare  for  any  one,  by  implicitly  following  those  inborn  im¬ 
pulses  of  his  soul,  which  make  themselves  irresistibly  felt,  to 
step  forward  as  an  artist  or  a  poet.  He  is  more  frequently 
fashioned  by  fate  and  circumstances  than  apparently  destined 
by  Nature  herself  for  this  office.  With  the  greater  number  of 
our  poets  an  early  acquaintance  with  passion,  early  inward  ex¬ 
perience,  or  outward  circumstances,  st;ind  instead  of  the  orig¬ 
inal  vein  of  nature,  and  this  cannot  in  any  case  be  more  incon¬ 
testably  proved  in  our  own  literature  than  by  instancing 
Oehlenschlager  and  Andersen.  And  in  this  way  it  may  be 
explained  why  the  former  has  been  so  frequently  the  object 
for  the  attacks  of  the  critics,  and  why  the  latter  was  first  prop¬ 
erly  appreciated  as  a  poet  in  foreign  countries,  where  civiliza¬ 
tion  of  a  longer  date  has  already  produced  a  disinclination  for 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


181 

the  compulsory  rule  of  schools,  and  has  occasioned  a  leaction 
toward  that  which  is  fresh  and  natural ;  whilst  we  Danes,  on 
the  contrary,  cherish  a  pious  respect  for  the  yoke  of  the  schools 
and  the  worn-out  wisdom  of  maxims.” 

Thorwaldsen,  wham,  as  I  have  already  said,  I  had  become 
acquainted  with  in  Rome  in  the  years  1833  an^  1834,  was  ex¬ 
pected  in  Denmark  in  the  autumn  of  1838,  and  great  festive 
preparations  were  made  in  consequence.  A  flag  was  to  wave 
upon  one  of  the  towers  of  Copenhagen  as  soon  as  the  vessel 
which  brought  him  should  come  in  sight.  It  was  a  national 
festival.  Boats  decorated  with  flowers  and  flags  filled  the 
Rhede ;  painters,  sculptors,  all  had  their  flags  with  emblems ; 
the  students’  bore  a  Minerva,  the  poets’  a  Pegasus.  It  was 
misty  weather,  and  the  ship  was  first  seen  when  it  was  already 
close  by  the  cfly,  and  all  poured  out  to  meet  him.  The  poets, 
who,  I  believe,  according  to  the  arrangement  of  Heiberg,  had 
been  invited,  stood  by  their  boat ;  Oehlenschlager  and  Hei¬ 
berg  alone  had  not  arrived.  And  now  guns  were  fired  from 
the  ship,  which  came  to  anchor,  and  it  was  to  be  feared  that 
Thorwaldsen  might  land  before  we  had  gone  out  to  meet  him. 
The  wind  bore  the  voice  of  singing  over  to  us  :  the  festive  re¬ 
ception  had  already  begun. 

I  wished  to  see  him,  and  therefore  cried  out  to  the  others, 
fi  Let  us  put  off!  ” 

“  Without  Oehlenschlager  and  Heiberg  ?  ”  asked  some  one. 

“But  they  are  not  arrived,  and  it  will  be  all  over.” 

One  of  the  poets  declared  that  if  these  two  men  were  not 
with  us,  I  should  not  sail  under  that  flag,  and  pointed  up  to 
Pegasus. 

“  We  will  throw  it  in  the  boat,”  said  I,  and  took  it  down 
from  the  staff ;  the  others  now  followed  me,  and  came  up 
just  as  Thoiwaldsen  reached  land.  We  met  with  Oehlenschla¬ 
ger  and  Heiberg  in  another  boat,  and  they  came  over  to  us  as 
the  enthusiasm  began  on  shore. 

The  people  drew  Thorwaldsen’s  carriage  through  the  streets 
to  his  house,  where  everybody  who  had  the  slightest  acquaint* 
ance  with  him,  or  with  the  friends  of  a  friend  of  his,  thronged 
around  him.  In  the  evening  the  artists  gave  him  a  serenade, 
and  the  blaze  of  the  torches  illumined  the  garden  under  the 


182 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


large  trees  ;  there  was  an  exultation  and  joy  which  really  ana 
truly  was  felt.  Young  and  old  hastened  through  the  open 
doors,  and  the  joyful  old  man  clasped  those  whom  he  knew 
to  his  breast,  gave  them  his  kiss,  and  pressed  their  hands. 
There  was  a  glory  round  Thorwaldsen  which  kept  me  timidly 
back  :  my  heart  beat  for  joy  of  seeing  him  who  had  met  me 
when  abroad  with  kindness  and  consolation,  who  had  pressed 
me  to  his  heart,  and  had  said  that  we  must  always  remain 
friends.  But  here  in  this  jubilant  crowd,  where  thousands 
noticed  every  movement  of  his,  where  I  too  by  all  these 
should  be  observed  and  criticised  —  yes,  criticised  as  a  vain 
man  who  now  only  wished  to  show  that  he  too  was  acquainted 
with  Thorwaldsen,  and  that  this  great  man  was  kind  and 
friendly  toward  him  —  here,  in  this  dense  crowd,  I  drew  my¬ 
self  back,  and  avoided  being  recognized  by  him.  Some  days 
afterward,  and  early  in  the  morning,  I  went  to  call  upon  him, 
and  found  him  as  a  friend  who  had  wondered  at  not  having 
seen  me  earlier. 

In  honor  of  Thorwaldsen  a  musical-poetic  academy  was 
established,  and  the  poets,  who  were  invited  to  do  so  by  Hei¬ 
berg,  wrote  and  read  each  one  a  poem  in  praise  of  him  who 
had  returned  home.  I  wrote  of  Jason  who  fetched  the  golden 
fleece  —  that  is  to  say,  Jason -Thorwaldsen,  who  went  forth  to 
win  golden  art.  A  great  dinner  and  a  ball  closed  the  festival, 
in  which,  for  the  first  time  in  Denmark,  popular  life  and  a 
subject  of  great  interest  in  the  realms  of  art  were  made  public. 

From  this  evening  I  saw  Thorwaldsen  almost  daily  in  com¬ 
pany  or  in  his  studio  :  I  often  passed  several  weeks  together 
with  him  at  Nyso,  where  he  seemed  to  have  firmly  taken  root, 
and  where  the  greater  number  of  his  works  executed  in  Den¬ 
mark  had  their  origin.  He  was  of  a  healthful  and  simple 
disposition  of  mind,  not  without  humor,  and,  therefore,  he  was 
extremely  attached  to  Holberg  the  poet :  he  did  not  at  all 
enter  into  the  troubles  and  the  disruptions  of  the  world. 

One  morning  at  Nyso  —  at  the  time  when  he  was  working 
at  his  own  statue  —  I  entered  his  work-room  and  bade  him 
good  morning ;  he  appeared  as  if  he  did  not  wish  to  notice 
me,  and  I  stole  softly  away  again.  At  breakfast  he  was  verv 
parsimonious  in  the  use  of  words,  and  when  somebody  asked 


THE  STOTT  OF  MY  LIFE.  1 83 

him  to  say  something  at  all  events,  he  replied  in  his  dry 
way :  — 

“  I  have  said  more  during  this  morning  that  in  many  whole 
days,  but  nobody  heard  me.  There  I  stood,  and  fancied  that 
Andersen  was  behind  me,  for  he  came  and  said  Good-morn¬ 
ing  !  so  I  told  him  a  long  story  about  myself  and  Byron.  I 
thought  that  he  mignt  give  me  one  word  in  reply,  andjanned 
myself  round  ;  and  there  had  I  been  standing  a  whole  hour 
and  chattering  aloud  to  the  bare  walls.” 

We  all  of  us  besought  him  to  let  us  hear  the  whole  story  yet 
once  more  ;  but  we  had  it  now  very  short. 

“  O,  that  was  in  Rome,”  said  he,  “  when  I  was  about  to 
make  Byron’s  statue  ;  he  placed  himself  just  opposite  to  me, 
and  began  immediately  to  assume  quite  another  countenance 
to  what  was  customary  to  him.  ‘Will  not  you  sit  still  ?  ’  said  I  : 
‘  but  you  must  not  make  these  faces.’  —  ‘  It  is  my  expression,’ 
said  Byron.  ‘  Indeed  ?  ’  said  I,  and  then  I  made  him  as  I 
wished,  and  everybody  said,  when  it  was  finished,  that  I  had 
hit  the  likeness.  When  Byron,  however,  saw  it,  he  said,  ‘  It 
does  not  resemble  me  at  all  ;  I  look  more  unhappy.’ 

“  He  was,  above  all  things,  so  desirous  of  looking  extremely 
unhappy,”  added  Thorwaldsen,  with  a  comic  expression. 

It  afforded  the  great  sculptor  pleasure  to  listen  to  music 
after  dinner  with  half-shut  eyes,  and  it  was  his  greatest  delight 
when  in  the  evening  the  game  of  lotto  began,  which  the  whole 
neighborhood  of  Nyso  was  obliged  to  learn  ;  they  only  played 
for  glass  pieces,  and  on  this  account  I  am  able  to  relate  a  pe¬ 
culiar  characteristic  of  this  otherwise  great  man  —  that  he 
played  with  the  greatest  interest  on  purpose  to  win. 

He  would  espouse  with  warmth  and  vehemence  the  part  of 
those  from  whom  he  believed  that  he  had  received  an  injus¬ 
tice  ;  he  opposed  himself  to  unfairness  and  raillery,  even 
against  the  lady  of  the  house,  who  for  the  rest  had  the  most 
childlike  sentiments  toward  him,  and  who  had  no  other  thought 
than  how  to  make  everything  most  agreeable  to  him. 

In  his  company  I  wrote  several  of  my  tales  for  children  — 
for  example,  “  Ole  Luckoie  ”  (“  Ole  Shut  Eye  ”),  to  which 
he  listened  with  pleasure  and  interest.  Often  in  the  twilight 
when  the  family  circle  sat  in  the  open  garden  parlor,  Thor 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I84 

waldsen  would  come  softly  behind  me,  and,  clayping  me  on 
the  shoulder,  would  ask,  “  Shall  we  little  ones  hear  any  tales 
to-night  ?  ” 

In  his  own  peculiarly  natural  manner  he  bestowed  the  most 
bountiful  praise  on  my  fictions,  for  their  truth  ;  it  delighted 
him  to  hear  the  same  stories  over  and  over  again.  Often,  dur* 
ing  his  most  glorious  works,  would  he  stand  with  laughing 
countenance,  and  listen  to  the  stories  of  “  The  Top  and  the 
Ball,”  and  the  “  Ugly  Duckling.”  I  possess  a  certain  talent 
of  improvising  in  my  native  tongue  little  poems  and  songs. 
This  talent  amused  Thorwaldsen  very  much  ;  and  as  he  had 
modeled,  at  Nyso,  Holberg’s  portrait  in  clay,  I  was  commis¬ 
sioned  to  make  a  poem  for  his  work,  and  he  received,  there¬ 
fore,  the  following  impromptu  :  — 

“No  more  shall  Holberg  live,”  by  Death  was  said  : 

“  I  crush  the  clay,  his  soul’s  bonds  heretofore.” 

“And  from  the  formless  clay,  the  cold,  the  dead,” 

Cried  Thorwaldsen,  “  shall  Holberg  live  once  more.” 

One  morning,  when  he  had  just  modeled  in  clay  his  great 
bass-relief  of  the  “  Procession  to  Golgotha,”  I  entered  his  study. 

“  Tell  me,”  said  he,  “  does  it  seem  to  you  that  I  have 
dressed  Pilate  properly?” 

“You  must  not  say  anything  to  him,”  said  the  Baroness, 
who  was  always  with  him :  “  it  is  right ;  it  is  excellent ;  go 
away  with  you  !  ” 

Thorwaldsen  repeated  his  question. 

“  Well  then,”  said  I,  “  as  you  ask  me,  I  must  confess  that  it 
really  does  appear  to  me  as  if  Pilate  were  dressed  rather  as 
an  Egyptian  than  as  a  Roman.” 

“  It  seems  to  me  so  too,”  said  Thorwaldsen,  seizing  the 
clay  with  his  hand,  and  destroying  the  figure. 

“  Now  you  are  guilty  of  his  having  annihilated  an  immortal 
woik  !  ”  exclaimed  the  Baroness  to  me  with  warmth. 

“  Then  we  can  make  a  new  immortal  work,”  said  he,  in  a 
cheerful  humor,  and  modeled  Pilate  as  he  now  remains  in 
the  bass-reliefs  in  Our  Lady’s  Church  in  Copenhagen. 

His  last  birthday  was  celebrated  there  in  the  country.  I 
had  written  a ’merry  little  song,  and  it  was  hardly  dry  on  the 
paper  when  we  sang  it  in  the  early  morning,  before  his  door, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


185 

accompanied  by  the  music  of  jingling  fire-irons,  gongs,  and 
bottles  rubbed  against  a  basket.  Thorwaldsen  himself,  in  his 
morning  gown  and  slippers,  opened  his  door,  and  danced 
round  his  chamber ;  swung  round  his  Raphael’s  cap,  and 
joined  in  the  chorus.  There  was  life  and  mirth  in  the  strong 
old  man. 

On  the  last  day  of  his  life  I  sat  by  him  at  dinner;  he  was 
unusually  good-humored  ;  repeated  several  witticisms  which 
he  had  just  read  in  the  “  Corsair,”  a  well-known  Copenhagen 
newspaper,  and  spoke  of  the  journey  which  he  should  under¬ 
take  to  Italy  in  the  summer.  After  this  we  parted  ;  he  went 
to  the  theatre,  and  I  home. 

On  the  following  morning  the  waiter  at  the  hotel  where  I 
lived  said,  “  that  it  was  a  very  remarkable  thing  about  Thor¬ 
waldsen  —  that  he  had  died  yesterday.” 

“Thorwaldsen!”  exclaimed  I;  “he  is  not  dead;  I  dined 
with  him  yesterday.” 

“  People  say  that  he  died  last  evening  at  the  theatre,”  re¬ 
turned  the  waiter. 

I  fancied  that  he  might  be  taken  ill ;  but  still  I  felt  a 
strange  anxiety,  and  hastened  immediately  over  to  his  house. 
There  lay  his  corpse  stretched  out  on  the  bed  ;  the  chamber 
was  filled  with  strangers  ;  the  floor  wet  with  melted  snow  ; 
the  air  stifling ;  no  one  said  a  word  :  the  Baroness  Stampe  sat 
on  the  bed  and  wept  bitterly.  I  stood  trembling  and  deeply 
agitated. 

Thorwaldsen’s  funeral  was  a  day  of  mourning  for  the 
nation.  Men  and  women  dressed  in  crape  stood  at  windows 
and  in  the  streets  ;  they  uncovered  their  heads  involun¬ 
tarily  when  the  coffin  passed  by.  There  was  a  calmness 
even  among  the  most  wild  boys ;  the  poorest  children  held 
each  other’s  hands  and  formed  ranks,  through  which  the  great 
funeral  procession  moved  from  Charlottenborg  to  Our  Lady’s 
Church,  where  King  Christian  VIII.  came  to  meet  the  pro¬ 
cession. 

From  the  organ  was  played  a  funeral  march,  composed  by 
Hartmann  ;  the  tones  were  so  powerful  that  we  felt  as  if  the 
great  invisible  spirits  joined  the  procession.  A  good-night 
hymn  which  I  had  written,  and  to  which  also  Hartmann  had 
set  music,  was  sung  by  Danish  students  over  his  coffin. 


CHAPTER  X. 


IN  the  summer  of  1842,  I  wrote  a  little  piece  for  the  sum¬ 
mer  theatre,  called  “  The  Bird  in  the  Pear-tree,”  in  which 
several  scenes  were  acted  up  in  the  pear-tree.  I  had  called  it 
a  dramatic  trifle,  in  order  that  no  one  might  expect  either  a 
great  work  or  one  of  a  very  elaborate  character.  It  was  a  lit¬ 
tle  sketch,  which,  after  being  performed  a  few  times,  was  re¬ 
ceived  with  so  much  applause,  that  the  directors  of  the  theatre 
accepted  it  ;  nay,  even  Mrs.  Heiberg,  the  favorite  of  the  pub¬ 
lic,  desired  to  take  a  part  in  it.  People  had  been  amused  ; 
had  thought  the  selection  of  the  music  excellent.  I  knew 
that  the  piece  had  stood  its  rehearsal  —  and  then  suddenly 
it  was  hissed.  Some  young  men,  who  gave  the  word  to  hiss, 
had  said  to  some  others,  who  inquired  of  them  their  reasons 
for  doing  so,  that  the  trifle  had  too  much  luck,  and  then  An¬ 
dersen  would  be  getting  too  mettlesome. 

I  was  not,  on  this  evening,  at  the  theatre  myself,  and  had 
not  the  least  idea  of  what  was  going  on.  On  the  following 
evening  I  went  to  the  house  of  one  of  my  friends.  I  had  head¬ 
ache,  and  was  looking  very  grave.  The  lady  of  the  house  met 
me  with  a  sympathizing  manner,  took  my  hand,  and  said,  “  Is 
it  really  worth  while  to  take  it  so  much  to  heart !  There  were 
only  two  who  hissed,  the  whole  house  beside  took  your  part.” 
“  Hissed  !  My  part !  Have  I  been  hissed  ?  ”  exclaimed  I. 
It  was  quite  comic  ;  one  person  assured  me  that  this  hiss¬ 
ing  had  been  a  triumph  for  me  ;  everybody  had  joined  in  ac¬ 
clamation,  and  “  there  was  only  one  who  hissed.” 

After  this,  another  person  came  and  I  asked  him  the 
number  of  those  who  hissed.  “Two,”  said  he.  The  nexl 
person  said  “  three,”  and  said  positively  there  were  no  more. 
One  of  my  most  veracious  friends,  the  naive,  woithy  Hartmann, 
now  made  his  appearance  ;  he  did  not  know  what  the  others 
had  said,  and  I  asked  him,  upon  his  conscience,  how  many  he 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  I  87 

had  heard  ;  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and  said  that,  at 
the  very  highest,  there  were  five. 

“No,”  said  I :  “now  I  will  ask  nobody  more;  the  number 
grows  just  as  with  Falstaff ;  here  stands  one  who  asserts  that 
there  was  only  one  person  who  hissed. 

Shocked,  and  yet  inclined  to  set  it  all  right  again,  he  re¬ 
plied,  “  Yes,  that  is  possible,  but  then  it  was  a  strong,  power¬ 
ful  hiss.” 

“  The  Bird  in  the  Pear-tree  ”  was  ridiculed  in  several  news¬ 
papers,  and  “  A  Poet's  Bazaar  ”  was  noticed  again  only  to  be 
made  sport  of.  I  remember  well  that  Oehlenschlager  praised 
them  both  at  this  time.  Heiberg,  on  the  contrary,  wrote  in  his 
journal  of  my  dramatic  trifle  :  — 

“  It  belongs  to  that  kind  of  small  creatures  whose  admission 
into  our  theatre  cage  it  would  be  pedantic  to  oppose  ;  for  we 
may  say  of  it,  that  if  it  does  no  good,  it  does  no  harm  either  ; 
it  is  too  little  for  that,  too  insignificant,  and  too  innocent.  As 
a  piece  to  fill  up  an  evening’s  entertainment,  of  which  a 
theatre  is  in  want,  it  may  perhaps  please  many,  and  certainly 
will  not  hurt  any  one.  It  is,  to  be  sure,  not  without  some  art¬ 
less  and  lyric  beauty.” 

Heiberg,  as  manager  of  the  Royal  Theatre,  and  as  proprie¬ 
tor  of  the  rejected  piece,  allowed  the  Casino  Theatre  ten  years 
afterward  to  perform  it.  I  had  then  grown  up  into  a  kinder 
generation.  My  little  work  was  performed  with  great  and 
lively  acclamation,  and  it  has  often  since  been  played. 

On  the  eighth  of  October,  1842,  Weyse  died  ;  he  was  my 
first  noble  protector.  In  earlier  days  we  often  met  at  WulfPs  ; 
we  worked  together  on  “  Kenilworth,”  but  we  never  became  in¬ 
timate  friends.  His  life  was  as  solitary  as  mine,  and  yet  peo¬ 
ple  liked  to  see  him  as  well  as  I  dare  believe  they  liked  to 
see  me  ;  but  I  have  the  nature  of  a  bird  of  passage,  and  fly 
over  Europe  ;  his  longest  trip  was  to  Roeskilde,  where,  in  a 
certain  family  circle,  he  found  a  home,  and  where  he  could  play 
fantasies  on  the  great  organ  of  the  cathedral.  At  Roes- 
*cilde  is  his  grave.  He  could  not  bear  travelling,  and  I  re¬ 
member  his  humor  when,  upon  returning  from  Greece  and 
Constantinople,  I  made  him  a  call. 

“  See  now,  you  have  not  been  any  further  than  I !  ”  said 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


188 

he;  “you  have  reached  Crown-Prince  Street,  and  locked  oul 
on  the  royal  garden  ;  I  do  the  same  ;  and  you  have  thrown 
away  ever  so  much  money.  Would  you  travel  ?  Go  tc  Roes- 
kilde  ;  that  is  enough,  until  we  visit  moons  and  planets  !  ” 

The  first  time  that  “  Kenilworth  ”  was  performed,  I  received 
a  characteristic  letter  from  him  which  begins  thus  :  “  Caris - 
sime  domine poeta  /  The  dull-minded  people  in  Copenhagen 
cannot  understand  what  we  are  driving  at  in  the  finale  of  the 
second  act  of  our  opera,”  etc.  “Kenilworth”  was  appointed 
for  the  funeral  festival  at  the  theatre  ;  it  was  Weyse’s  last  and 
perhaps  favorite  work  ;  he  had  chosen  the  subject  himself ;  he 
had  himself  written  some  parts  of  the  text,  and  I  am  con¬ 
vinced  that  if  his  immortal  soul  in  the  other  world  still  had 
his  earthly  thoughts,  he  would  have  enjoyed  seeing  this  work 
brought  him  as  a  flower  of  honor  ;  but  it  was  abandoned,  and 
Shakespeare’s  tragedy,  “  Macbeth,”  for  which  Weyse  had  com¬ 
posed  the  music,  was  given  ;  yet  I  don’t  think  it  is  the  most 
characteristic  of  his  compositions. 

On  the  day  of  burial,  strangely  enough,  the  corpse  was  not 
yet  quite  cold  near  the  heart.  I  heard  of  it  as  I  came  with 
the  funeral  train  to  the  house  of  mourning,  and  asked  the  phy¬ 
sicians  for  heaven’s  sake  to  examine  it,  and  do  all  that  they 
could  to  bring  him  to  life  again;  but  they  assured  me  after  a 
close  examination  that  he  was  dead  and  would  stay  dead  ; 
that  this  kind  of  warmth  was  not  unusual  ;  but  I  asked  them 
finally  to  sever  his  arteries  before  they  closed  the  coffin  ;  they 
would  not  do  it.  Oehlenschliiger  heard  of  it  and  came  up  to 
me,  saying,  “  What !  would  you  have  him  dissected  !  ”  —  “  Yes, 
rather  than  that  he  should  awaken  in  the  grave,  and  you  too 
would  rather  have  them  do  so  to  you  when  you  die  !  ”  —  “1  !  ” 
exclaimed  Qehlenschlager.  and  drew  back.  Alas  !  Weyse  was 
dead. 

By  my  last  works,  and  by  prudent  economy,  I  had  now 
saved  a  small  sum  of  money,  which  I  set  apart  for  the  purpose 
of  a  new  journey  to  Paris.  At  the  end  of  January,  1843,  I  left 
Copenhagen.  In  consideration  of  the  advanced  season,  I  took 
the  route  by  Funen,  through  Sleswick  and  Holstein.  It  was  3 
wearisome  and  difficult  journey  until  I  reached  Itzehoe  ana 
Breitenburg.  Count  Rantzau  received  me  very  heartily  and 


1 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


kindly ;  I  spent  a  few  pleasant  days  with  him  at  the  old 
castle.  The  vernal  storms  raged,  but  the  sun  burst  forth  with 
its  warm  rays,  and  the  larks  sung  over  the  marshy  green.  I 
visited  all  the  places  in  the  vicinity  which  I  had  before  known. 
The  days  and  evenings  were  a  continual  feast. 

I  who  always  lived  without  thinking  of  politics  or  political 
parties,  observed  now  for  the  first  time  a  kind  of  variance  be¬ 
tween  the  duchies  and  the  kingdom.  I  had  thought  so  little 
about  the  relation  of  these  countries  to  each  other,  that  in  my 
“  Bazaar  ”  I  had  written  in  the  dedication :  “  To  my  fellow- 
countryman  the  Holsteiner,  Professor  Ross  ;  ”  but  I  felt  now 
that  this  matter  of  nationality  was  not  as  I  had  supposed 
it  to  be.  I  heard  a  lady  talking  of  “our  duke,”  meaning  the 
King.  “  Why  do  you  not  call  him  king?”  I  asked  in  my  ig¬ 
norance  of  hostilities. 

“He  is  not  our  king,  but  our  duke  !  ”  replied  she.  Petty 
political  irritations  occurred.  Count  Rantzau,  who  loved  the 
King,  Denmark,  and  the  Danes,  and  was  besides  a  very  atten¬ 
tive  host,  smoothed  over  what  was  said  in  a  jesting  manner. 
“  They  are  silly  fools  !  ”  he  whispered  to  me,  and  I  thought 
that  it  was  eccentricity  that  I  had  met  with,  and  not  the  pre¬ 
vailing  opinion,  which  I  began  to  fear. 

We  learned  that  a  conflagration  had  raged  in  Hamburg, 
which  had  ravaged  the  whole  portion  of  the  city  near  the  Al- 
ster.  A  few  new  houses  had  since  been  rebuilt,  but  the  most 
part  lay  still  in  ruins,  with  burnt  beams  and  crumbling  towers. 
At  the  “  Jungfernstieg  ”  and  the  “  Esplanade  ”  were  erected 
rows  of  small  brick  shops,  where  the  merchants,  who  had  suf¬ 
fered  by  the  fire,  had  their  salesrooms.  It  was  difficult  for 
foreigners  to  find  shelter.  But  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  find 
entertainment  under  the  best  and  most  comfortable  of  roofs, 
that  of  Count  Hoick,  who  was  Danish  postmaster,  and  I  was 
received  in  his  family  as  a  dear  guest. 

I  spent  happy  hours  here  with  the  genial  Speckter.  He 
had  just  begun  to  draw  those  pictures  for  my  tales,  which  are 
so  admirable,  so  full  of  genius  and  humor  ;  they  are  to  be 
seen  in  one  of  the  English  editions,  and  in  one  of  the  less  for¬ 
tunate  German  translations,  where  ‘  The  Ugly  Duckling”  is 
translated  by  “  The  Green  Duck,”  and  has  since  passed  in  a 
French  translation  as  “  Le  petit  Canard  vert.” 


190 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


There  was  not  yet  any  railway  over  the  Lunenburg  heath 
we  rode  a  whole  night  and  day  in  the  slow  stage-coach  by  bad 
roads  from  Haarburg  over  Osnabruck  to  Diisseldorf,  where  J. 
arrived  on  the  very  last  day  of  the  carnival,  and  saw  m  Ger 
man  shape  what  I  had  before  seen  in  Roman.  Cologne  is 
said  to  be,  among  German  towns,  the  place  where  they  have 
the  most  magnificently  arranged  street  processions.  In  Diis- 
seldorf  the  festival  was  favored  by  most  lovely  weather,  as  the 
reporters  would  say.  I  saw  a  funny  parade  :  a  cavalry  troop  of 
boys  on  foot,  who  managed  the  horses  they  made  believe  to 
ride  on;  a  comic  Hall  of  Fools,  —  a  parody  on  “The  Wal- 
ha'la,”  which  was  open  for  visitors  ;  they  told  me  that  the 
painter  Achenbach,  whom  I  learned  to  know  and  appreciate, 
arranged  the  festival.  Among  the  masters  of  the  Diisseldorf 
school  I  recognized  several  old  friends  whom  I  knew  on  my 
first  stay  at  Rome. 

I  met  a  countryman,  a  native  of  Odense,  Mr.  Benzon.  At 
home,  as  soon  as  he  began  to  paint,  he  painted  my  portrait. 
It  was  the  first  one  that  had  been  made  of  me,  and  was  quite 
horrible  ;  it  looked  like  the  shadow  of  a  man,  or  like  one  who 
has  been  pressed  between  some  leaves  for  several  years,  and 
was  now  taken  out  and  found  to  be  as  dry  as  a  mummy.  The 
book-seller,  Reitzel,  bought  it  of  him.  Benzon  had  here  in 
Diisseldorf  risen  to  a  place  among  artists,  and  had  recently 
finished  a  beautiful  picture,  “  Saint  Knud,”  who  was  slain  in 
the  church  of  St.  Albani,  in  Odense. 

I  made  a  quiet  journey  by  diligence,  and  by  railroad,  which 
was  but  partially  finished,  to  Brussels,  by  way  of  Cologne  and 
Liittich.  Here  I  heard  Alizard  in  Donizetti’s  “  La  Favorita.” 
I  wearied  of  seeing  in  the  Gallery  Rubens’s  fleshy,  fair-haired 
women,  with  homely  noses  and  faded  clothes  ;  I  felt  solemnly 
affected  in  the  magnificent  churches,  and  lingered  before  the 
old,  memorable  Hotel  de  Ville,  where  Egmont  was  beheaded. 
The  tower  lifts  Itself  up  with  its  garniture  and  its  points,— 
a  wonderful,  grand  piece  of  Brussels  lace. 

On  the  railway  from  here  to  Mons  I  leaned  against  the  door 
to  look  out  of  the  window,  when  it  sprung  open,  for  it  was  not 
locked ;  and  if  my  neighbor  had  not  seen  it  and  immediately 
grabbed  me  and  held  on  tight,  I  should  certainly  have  beer. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


191 

hurled  out ;  as  it  was,  I  escaped  with  the  fright  only.  It  was 
spring-time  in  France  ;  the  fields  were  green,  the  sun  warm  ; 
I  caught  sight  of  St.  Denis,  passed  the  new  fortifications  of 
Paris,  and  soon  was  seated  in  my  room  in  the  Hotel  Valois, 
Rue  Richelieu,  opposite  the  Library. 

Marmier  had  already,  in  the  “  Revue  de  Paris,”  written  an 
article  on  me,  “  La  Vie  d’un  Pobte.”  He  had  also  translated 
several  of  my  poems  into  French,  and  had  actually  honored 
me  with  a  poem  which  is  printed  in  the  above  named  “  Revue.” 
My  name  had  thus  reached,  like  a  sound,  the  ears  of  some 
persons  in  the  literary  world,  and  I  here  met  with  a  surpris¬ 
ingly  friendly  reception. 

I  often  visited  at  Victor  Hugo’s  and  enjoyed  great  kindness 
there,  —  a  reception  which  Oehlenschlager  in  his  “  Life  ”  com¬ 
plains  that  he  did  not  find ;  so  I  ought  to  feel  flattered.  At 
Victor  Hugo’s  invitation  I  saw  at  the  Theatre  Frangais  his 
abused  tragedy,  “  Les  Burggraves,”  which  was  every  evening 
hissed  and  parodied  at  the  smaller  theatres.  His  wife  was 
very  handsome,  and  possessed  that  amiability  so  peculiar  to 
French  ladies  which  makes  foreigners  so  entirely  at  home 
with  them. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ancelot  opened  their  house  to  me,  and  there  I 
met  Martinez  de  la  Rosas  and  other  remarkable  men  of  these 
times.  I  was  greatly  taken  with  De  la  Rosas  a  long  time 
before  I  knew  who  he  was.  His  whole  appearance,  and  the 
impression  his  conversation  had  made  upon  me,  induced  me 
to  ask  Madame  Ancelot  who  that  gentleman  was. 

“  Have  I  not  presented  you  to  him  ?  ”  said  she  ;  “  he  is  the 
statesman,  the  poet  Martinez  de  la  Rosas  !  ”  She  brought  us 
together,  told  him  who  I  was,  and  he  asked  after  old  Count 
Yoldi  at  Copenhagen  ;  and  described  then  to  the  whole  circle 
how  beautifully  and  sympathizingly  Frederick  VI.  had  cared 
for  the  Spaniard,  when  he  had  asked  his  advice  as  to  what 
party  at  home  he  ought  to  join,  and  when  that  which  he  joined 
lost  power,  the  Danish  king  bestowed  upon  him  an  office  and 
home  in  Denmark.  The  conversation  turned  soon  entirely 
upon  Denmark.  A  young  diplomat,  who  had  just  returned 
from  being  present  at  the  coronation  of  Christian  VIII.,  gave 
us  a  peculiar,  very  kind,  and  animated  description  of  Frederick’s 


192 


THE  STORY  OE  MY  LIFE. 


Castle  and  the  festival  there,  but  a  description  which  sounded 
oddly  to  a  Dane.  He  spoke  of  the  mighty  beech  woods,  the 
old  Gothic  castle  built  in  the  midst  of  the  water,  the  richly 
gilt  church,  and  —  what  sounded  very  droll  since  it  seemed 
as  if  he  believed  it  to  be  a  custom  in  every-day  life  —  that  all 
the  grand  functionaries  wore  yellow  and  white  silk-clothes, 
with  feathers  stuck  in  the  barrettes  and  long  trailing  velvet 
mantles,  which  they  throw  over  the  arm  when  walking  in  the 
street.  He  had  seen  it  himself !  and  I  admitted  that  it  was 
so  at  the  coronation. 

Lamartine  seemed  to  me,  in  his  domestic  and  in  his  whole 
personal  appearance,  to  be  the  prince  of  them  all.  On  my 
apologizing  because  I  spoke  such  bad  French,  he  replied 
that  he  was  to  blame,  because  he  did  not  understand  the 
northern  languages,  in  which,  as  he  had  discovered  in  late 
years,  there  existed  a  fresh  and  vigorous  literature,  and  where 
the  poetical  ground  was  so  peculiar  that  you  had  only  to  stoop 
down  to  find  an  old  golden  horn.  He  asked  about  the  Troll- 
hatta  canal,  and  avowed  a  wish  to  visit  Denmark  and  Stock¬ 
holm.  He  recollected  also  our  now  reigning  king,  to  whom, 
when  as  prince  he  was  in  Castellamare,  he  had  paid  his  re¬ 
spects  ;  besides  this,  he  exhibited,  for  a  Frenchman,  an  extraor¬ 
dinary  acquaintance  with  names  and  places  in  Denmark. 
On  my  departure  he  wrote  a  little  poem  for  me,  which  I  pre¬ 
serve  amongst  my  dearest  relics. 

I  generally  found  the  jovial  Alexandre  Dumas  in  bed,  even 
long  after  mid-day;  here  he  lay,  with  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and 
wrote  his  newest  drama.  I  found  him  thus  one  day  ;  he 
nodded  kindly  to  me,  and  said,  “  Sit  down  a  minute  ;  I  have 
just  now  a  visit  from  my  muse  ;  she  will  be  going  directly.” 
He  wrote  on  ;  spoke  aloud  ;  shouted  a  viva  !  sprang  out  of 
bed,  and  said,  “  The  third  act  is  finished  !  ” 

He  lived  in  the  Hotel  des  Princes  in  Rue  Richelieu,  his  wife 
was  at  Florence,  his  son,  Dumas  junior,  who  has  since  followed 
in  his  father’s  literary  footsteps,  had  his  own  house  in  the  city 
w  I  live  quite  a  la  garfon,”  said  Dumas,  “  so  you  must  put 
up  with  what  you  find  !  ”  One  evening  he  escorted  me  about 
to  the  various  theatres,  that  I  might  see  life  behind  the 
scenes.  We  wore  at  the  Palais  Royal,  talked  with  Dejaze- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


*93 


and  Anais,  wandered  then,  arm  in  arm,  along  the  gay  Boule¬ 
vard  to  the  Theatre  St.  Martin.  “Now  they  are  just  in  the 
short  petticoats  !  ”  said  Dumas  ;  “  shall  we  go  in  !  ”  That  we 
did,  and  behind  scenes  and  curtains  we  wandered  through 
the  sea  in  the  “  Thousand  and  One  Nights.”  There  was  a 
crowd  of  people,  machinists,  choristers,  and  dancers,  and  Du¬ 
mas  carried  me  into  the  middle  of  the  noisy  crowrd.  When  we 
returned  home  along  the  Boulevard  we  met  a  young  man,  who 
stopped  us.  “  That  is  my  son  !  ”  said  Alexandre  Dumas  :  u  he 
was  born  when  I  was  eighteen  years  old  ;  now  he  is  of  the 
same  age  and  has  no  son  !  ”  He  was  in  later  years  the  well 
known  “  Dumas  fils  !  ” 

I  also  have  to  thank  him  for  my  acquaintance  with  Rachel. 
I  had  not  seen  her  act,  when  Alexandre  Dumas  asked  me 
whether  I  had  the  desire  to  make  her  acquaintance.  One 
evening,  when  she  was  to  appear  as  Phcedra ,  he  led  me  to 
the  stage  of  the  Theatre  Fran^ais.  The  representation  had 
begun,  and  behind  the  scenes,  where  a  folding  screen  had 
formed  a  sort  of  room,  in  which  stood  a  table  with  refresh¬ 
ments,  and  a  few  ottomans,  sat  the  young  girl  who,  as  an 
author  has  said,  understands  how  to  chisel  living  statues  out 
of  Racine’s  and  Corneille’s  blocks  of  marble.  She  was  thin 
and  slenderly  formed,  and  looked  very  young.  She  looked  to 
me  there,  and  more  particularly  so  afterward  in  her  own  house 
as  an  image  of  mourning  ;  as  a  young  girl  who  has  just  wept 
out  her  sorrow,  and  will  now  let  her  thoughts  repose  in  quiet. 
She  accosted  us  kindly,  in  ^  deep,  powerful  voice.  In  the 
course  of  conversation  with  Dumas  she  forgot  me.  I  stood 
there  quite  as  one  outside.  Dumas  observed  it,  said  something 
handsome  of  me,  and  on  that  I  ventured  to  take  part  in  the 
discourse,  although  I  had  a  depressing  feeling  that  I  stood 
before  those  who  perhaps  spoke  the  most  beautiful  French  in 
all  France.  I  said  that  I  truly  had  seen  much  that  was  glori 
ous  and  interesting,  but  that  I  never  yet  had  seen  a  Rachel, 
and  that  on  her  account  especially  had  I  devoted  the  profits 
of  my  last  work  to  a  journey  to  Paris  ;  and  as,  in  conclusion, 

I  added  an  apology  on  account  of  my  French,  she  smiled  and 
said.  “When  you  say  anything  sd  polite  as  that  which  you 

13 


194 


THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE.  1 


have  just  said  to  me,  to  a  Frenchwoman,  she  will  always  think 
that  you  speak  well.” 

When  I  told  her  that  her  fame  had  reached  us  in  the  North, 
she  declared  that  it  was  her  intention  to  go  to  St.  Petersburg 
and  Copenhagen.  “  And  when  I  come  to  your  city,”  she  said, 
“  you  must  be  my  defender,  as  you  are  the  only  one  there 
whom  I  know  ;  and  in  order  that  we  may  become  acquainted, 
and  as  you  tell  me  that  you  have  come  to  Paris  especially  on 
my  account,  we  must  see  one  another  frequently.  You  will  be 
welcome  to  me.  I  see  my  friends  at  my  house  every  Thursday. 
But  duty  calls,”  said  she,  and  offering  us  her  hand,  she  nodded 
kindly,  and  then  stood  a  few  paces  from  us  on  the  stage,  taller, 
quite  different,  and  with  the  expression  of  the  tragic  muse  her¬ 
self.  Joyous  acclamations  ascended  to  where  we  sat. 

As  a  Northlander  I  cannot  accustom  myself  to  the  French 
mode  of  acting  tragedy.  Rachel  plays  in  this  same  style,  but 
in  her  it  appears  to  be  nature  itself ;  it  is  as  if  all  the  others 
strove  to  imitate  her.  She  is  herself  the  French  tragic  muse, 
the  others  are  only  poor  human  beings.  When  Rachel  plays, 
people  fancy  that  all  tragedy  must  be  acted  in  this  manner. 
It  is  in  her  truth  and  nature,  but  under  another  revelation 
from  that  with  which  we  are  acquainted  in  the  North. 

At  her  house  everything  is  rich  and  magnificent,  perhaps 
too  recherche.  The  innermost  room  was  light  green,  with  shaded 
lamps  and  statuettes  of  French  authors.  In  the  salon ,  properly 
speaking,  the  color  which  prevailed  principally  in  the  carpets, 
curtains,  and  book-cases  was  crimson.  She  herself  was  dressed 
in  black,  probably  as  she  is  represented  in  the  well-known 
English  steel  engraving  of  her.  Her  guests  consisted  of 
gentlemen,  —  for  the  greater  part  artists  and  men  of  learning. 
I  also  heard  a  few  titles  amongst  them.  Richly  appareled 
servants  announced  the  names  of  the  guests  :  tea  was  drunk 
and  refreshments  handed  round,  more  in  the  German  than 
the  French  style. 

Victor  Hugo  had  told  me  that  he  found  she  understood  the 
German  language.  I  asked  her,  and  she  replied  in  German, 
'*  Ich  kann  es  lesen  ;  ich  bin  ja  in  Lothringen  geboren  ;  ich 
habe  deutsche  Bucher,  sehn  Sie  hier!”  and  she  showed  me 
Grillparzer’s  “  Sappho,”  and  then  immediately  continued  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


*95 


conversation  in  French.  She  expressed  her  pleasure  in  acting 
the  part  of  Sappho ,  and  then  spoke  of  Schiller’s  “  Marie 
Stuart,”  which  character  she  has  personated  in  a  French 
version  of  that  play.  I  saw  her  in  this  part,  and  she  gave  the 
last  act  especially  with  such  a  composure  and  tragic  feeling, 
that  she  might  have  been  one  of  the  best  of  German  actresses  , 
but  it  was  precisely  in  this  very  act  that  the  French  liked  her 
least. 

“  My  countrymen,”  said  she,  “  are  not  accustomed  to  this 
manner,  and  in  this  manner  alone  can  the  part  be  given.  No 
one  should  be  raving  when  the  heart  is  almost  broken  with 
sorrow,  and  when  he  is  about  to  take  an  everlasting  farewell 
of  his  friends.” 

Her  drawing-room  was,  for  the  most  part,  decorated  with 
books,  which  were  splendidly  bound  and  arranged  in  handsome 
book-cases  behind  glass.  A  painting  hung  on  the  wall,  which 
represented  the  interior  of  the  theatre  in  London,  where  she 
stood  forward  on  the  stage,  and  flowers  and  garlands  were 
thrown  to  her  across  the  orchestra.  Below  this  picture  hung 
a  pretty  little  book-shelf,  holding  what  I  called  “  the  high  no¬ 
bility  among  the  poets,”  —  Goethe,  Schiller,  Calderon,  Shake¬ 
speare,  etc. 

She  asked  me  many  questions  respecting  Germany  and 
Denmark,  art  and  the  theatre  ;  and  encouraged  me  with  a  kind 
smile  around  her  grave  mouth,  when  I  stumbled  in  French 
and  stopped  for  a  moment  to  collect  myself  that  I  might  not 
stick  quite  fast. 

“  Only  speak,”  said  she.  “  It  is  true  that  you  do  not  speak 
French  well.  I  have  heard  many  foreigners  speak  my  native 
language  better  ;  but  their  conversation  has  not  been  nearly 
as  interesting  as  yours.  I  understand  the  sense  of  your  words 
perfectly,  and  that  is  the  principal  thing  which  interests  me  in 
you.” 

The  last  time  we  parted  she  wrote  the  following  words  in  my 
album  :  “  L’art  c’est  le  vrai  !  ’  J’espere  que  cet  aphorisme  ne 
semblera  pas  paradoxal  it  un  ecrivain  aussi  distingue  que  M. 
Andersen.” 

I  perce  Ved  amiability  of  character  in  Alfred  de  Vigny. 
He  has  married  an  English  lady,  and  that  which  is  best  in  both 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I96 

nations  seemed  to  unite  in  his  house.  The  last  evening  which 
I  spent  in  Paris,  he  himself,  who  is  possessed  of  intellectual 
status  and  worldly  wealth,  came  almost  at  midnight  to  my 
lodging  in  the  Rue  Richelieu,  ascended  the  many  steps,  and 
brought  me  his  works  under  his  arm.  So  much  cordiality 
beamed  in  his  eyes,  and  he  seemed  to  be  so  full  of  kind¬ 
ness  toward  me,  that  I  felt  affected  by  our  separation. 

I  also  became  acquainted  with  the  sculptor  David.  There 
was  a  something  in  his  demeanor  and  in  his  straightforward 
manner  that  reminded  me  of  Thorwaldsen  and  Bissen,  espe¬ 
cially  of  the  latter.  We  did  not  meet  till  toward  the  conclusion 
of  my  residence  in  Paris.  He  lamented  it,  and  said  that  he 
would  execute  a  bust  of  me  if  I  would  remain  there  longer. 

When  I  said,  “But  you  know  nothing  of  me  as  a  poet,  and 
cannot  tell  whether  I  deserve  it  or  not,”  he  looked  earnestly 
in  my  face,  clapped  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  “  I  have, 
however,  read  you  yourself  before  your  books.  You  are  a 
poet.” 

At  the  Countess  Bocarme’s,  where  I  met  with  Balzac,  I 
saw  an  old  lady,  the  expression  of  whose  countenance  at¬ 
tracted  my  attention.  There  was  something  so  animated,  so 
cordial  in  it,  and  everybody  gathered  about  her.  The  Coun¬ 
tess  introduced  me  to  her,  and  I  heard  that  she  was  Madame 

0 

Reybaud,  the  authoress  of  “  Les  Epaves,”  the  little  story  which 
I  had  made  use  of  for  my  drama  of  “  The  Mulatto.”  I 
told  her  all  about  it,  and  of  the  representation  of  the  piece, 
which  interested  her  so  much  that  she  became  from  this 
evening  my  especial  protectress.  We  went  out  one  evening 
together  and  exchanged  ideas.  She  corrected  my  French, 
and  allowed  me  to  repeat  what  did  not  appear  correct  to  her. 
She  is  a  lady  of  rich  mental  endowments,  with  a  clear  insight 
into  the  world,  and  she  showed  maternal  kindness  toward  me. 

Balzac,  with  whom,  as  I  have  already  said,  I  made  acquaint¬ 
ance  in  the  saloon  of  the  Countess  Bocarme,  was  an  elegant 
and  neatly  dressed  gentleman,  whose  teeth  shone  white  be¬ 
tween  his  red  lips;  he  seemed  to  be  very  merry,  but  a  mac 
of  few  words,  at  least  in  society.  A  lady,  who  wrote  verses 
took  hold  of  us,  drew  us  to  a  sofa,  and  placed  herself  betweer 
us  ;  she  told  us  how  small  she  seemed'  to  be  when  seated  be* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


l97 


tween  us.  I  turned  my  head  and  met  behind  her  bach 
Balzac’s  satirical  and  laughing  face,  with  his  mouth  half  oper. 
and  pursed  up  in  a  queer  manner ;  that  was  properly  oui 
first  meeting. 

One  day  I  was  going  through  the  Louvre,  and  met  a  man 
who  was  the  very  image  of  Balzac  in  figure,  gait,  and  features, 
but  the  man  was  dressed  in  miserable  tattered  clothes,  which 
were  even  quite  dirty  ;  his  boots  were  not  brushed,  his  panta¬ 
loons  were  spattered  with  mud,  and  the  hat  was  crushed  and 
worn  out.  I  stopped  in  surprise  ;  the  man  smiled  at  me  :  I 
passed  him,  but  the  resemblance  was  too  strong  ;  I  turned, 
ran  after  him,  and  said  :  “  Are  you  not  M.  Balzac  ?  ”  He 
laughed,  showed  his  white  teeth,  and  only  said,  “  To-morrow 
Monsieur  Balzac  starts  for  St.  Petersburg  !  ”  He  pressed  my 
hand,  —  his  was  soft  and  delicate,  —  nodded,  and  went  away. 
It  could  not  be  other  than  Balzac  :  perhaps  in  that  attire  he  had 
been  out  on  an  author’s  investigation  into  the  mysteries  of 
Paris ;  or,  was  the  man  perhaps  quite  another  person,  who 
knew  that  he  resembled  Balzac  strongly,  and  wished  to  mys¬ 
tify  a  stranger?  A  few  days  after  I  talked  with  Countess 
Bocarme,  who  gave  me  a  message  from  Balzac  —  he  had  left 
for  St.  Petersburg. 

I  also  again  met  with  Heine.  He  had  married  since  I  was 
last  here.  I  found  him  in  indifferent  health,  but  full  of  en¬ 
ergy,  and  so  friendly  and  natural  in  his  behavior  toward  me, 
that  I  felt  no  timidity  in  exhibiting  myself  to  him  as  I  was. 
One  day  he  had  been  telling  his  wife  in  French  my  story  of 
u  The  Constant  Tin  Soldier,  ”  and,  whilst  he  said  that  I  was  the 
author  of  this  story,  he  introduced  me  to  her. 

“  First,  are  you  going  to  publish  your  travels  ?  ”  he  asked  ; 
and  when  I  said  No,  he  proceeded,  “Well  then  I  will  show 
you  my  wife.”  She  was  a  lively,  pretty  young  lady.  A  troop 
of  children  —  “  Some  we’ve  borrowed  of  a  neighbor,  not 
having  any  of  our  own,”  said  Heine  —  played  about  in  their 
room.  We  two  played  with  them  whilst  Heine  copied  out 
one  of  his  last  poems  for  me. 

I  perceived  in  him  no  pain-giving,  sarcastic  smile  ;  I  only 
heard  the  pulsation  of  a  German  heart,  which  is  always  per 
ceptible  in  the  songs,  and  which  must  live. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


198 

Through  the  means  of  the  many  people  I  was  acquainted 
with  here,  —  among  whom  I  might  enumerate  many  others,  as, 
for  instance,  Kalkbrenner,  Gathy,  etc.,  —  my  residence  in  Paris 
was  made  very  cheerful  and  rich  in  pleasure.  I  did  not  feel 
myself  like  a  stranger  there  :  I  met  with  a  friendly  reception 
among  the  greatest  and  best.  It  was  like  a  payment  by  an¬ 
ticipation  of  the  talent  which  was  in  me,  and  through  which 
they  expected  that  I  would  some  time  prove  them  not  to  have 
been  mistaken. 

Whilst  I  was  in  Paris,  I  received  from  Germany,  where 
already  several  of  my  works  were  translated  and  read,  a  de¬ 
lightful  and  encouraging  proof  of  friendship.  A  German  fam¬ 
ily,  one  of  the  most  highly  cultivated  and  amiable  with  whom 
I  am  acquainted,  had  read  my  writings  with  interest,  especially 
the  little  biographical  sketch  prefixed  to  “  Only  a  Fiddler,” 
and  felt  the  heartiest  good-will  toward  me,  with  whom  they 
were  not  then  personally  acquainted.  They  wrote  to  me. 
expressed  their  thanks  for  my  works  and  the  pleasure  they 
had  derived  from  them,  and  offered  me  a  kind  welcome  to 
their  house  if  I  would  visit  it  on  my  return  home.  There  was 
something  extremely  cordial  and  natural  in  this  letter,  which 
was  the  first  that  I  received  of  this  kind  in  Paris,  and  it  also 
formed  a  remarkable  contrast  to  that  which  was  sent  to  me 
from  my  native  land  in  the  year  1833,  when  I  was  here  for  the 
first  time. 

In  this  way  I  found  myself,  through  my  writings,  adopted, 
as  it  were,  into  a  family  to  which  since  then  I  gladly  betake 
myself,  and  where  I  know  that  it  is  not  only  as  the  poet,  but 
as  the  man,  that  I  am  beloved.  In  how  many  instances  have 
I  not  experienced  the  same  kindness  in  foreign  countries !  I 
will  mention  one  for  the  sake  of  its  peculiarity. 

There  lived  in  Saxony  a  wealthy  and  benevolent  family  ; 
the  lady  of  the  house  read  my  romance  of  “  Only  a  Fiddler,” 
and  the  impression  of  this  book  was  such  that  she  vowed  that 
if  ever,  in  the  course  of  her  life,  she  should  meet  with  a  poor 
child  which  was  possessed  of  great  musical  talents,  she  would 
not  allow  it  to  perish  as  the  poor  Fiddler  had  done.  A 
musician  who  had  heard  her  say  this,  brought  to  her  soor 
after,  not  one,  but  two  poor  boys,  assuring  her  of  their  talent 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


199 


and  reminding  her  of  her  promise.  She  kept  her  word  :  both 
boys  were  received  into  her  house,  were  educated  by  her,  and 
are  now  in  the  Conservatorium  ;  the  youngest  of  them  played 
before  me,  and  I  saw  that  his  countenance  was  happy  and 
joyful.  The  same  thing,  perhaps,  might  have  happened ; 
the  same  excellent  lady  might  have  befr'ended  these  chil¬ 
dren  without  my  book  having  been  written  :  but  notwithstand¬ 
ing  this,  my  book  is  now  connected  with  it  as  a  link  in  the 
chain. 

On  my  return  home  from  Paris,  I  went  along  the  Rhine ;  I 
knew  that  the  poet  Frieligrath,  to  whom  the  King  of  Prussia 
had  given  a  pension,  was  residing  in  one  of  the  Rhine  towns. 
The  picturesque  character  of  his  poems  had  delighted  me 
extremely,  and  I  wished  to  talk  with  him.  I  stopped  at  several 
towns  on  the  Rhine  and  inquired  after  him.  In  St.  Goar,  I 
was  shown  the  house  in  which  he  lived.  I  found  him  sitting 
at  his  writing  table,  and  he  appeared  annoyed  at  being  dis¬ 
turbed  by  a  stranger.  I  did  not  mention  my  name  :  but 
merely  said  that  I  could  not  pass  St.  Goar  without  paying  my 
respects  to  the  poet  Frieligrath. 

“  That  is  very  kind  of  you,”  said  he,  in  a  very  cold  tone  ; 
and  then  asked  who  I  was. 

“  We  have  both  of  us  one  and  the  same  friend,  Chamisso !  ” 
replied  I,  and  at  these  words  he  leapt  up  exultantly. 

“  You  are  then  Andersen  !  ”  he  exclaimed  ;  threw  his  arms 
around  my  neck,  and  his  honest  eyes  beamed  with  joy. 

“  Now  you  will  stop  several  days  here,”  said  he.  I  told 
him  that  I  could  only  stay  a  couple  of  hours,  because  I  was 
travelling  with  some  of  my  countrymen  who  were  waiting  for 
me. 

You  have  a  great  many  friends  in  little  St.  Goar,”  said 
he  ;  “  it  is  but  a  short  time  since  I  read  aloud  your  novel  of 
“  O.  T.”  to  a  large  circle  ;  one  of  these  friends  I  must,  at  all 
events,  fetch  here,  and  you  must  also  see  my  wife.  Yes, 
indeed,  you  dc  not  know  that  you  had  something  to  do  with 
Dtir  being  married.” 

He  then  related  to  me  how  my  novel,  “  Only  a  Fiddler,”  had 
caused  them  to  exchange  letters,  and  then  led  to  their  ac¬ 
quaintance,  which  acquaintance  had  ended  in  their  being  a 


200 


THE  STORY  OF  AIY  LIFE . 


married  couple.  He  called  her,  mentioned  to  her  my  name; 
and  I  was  regarded  as  an  old  friend. 

In  Bonn,  where  I  passed  the  night,  I  called  on  old  Moritz 
Arndt,  he  who  afterward  became  so  bitter  against  the  Danes, 
Then  I  only  knew  him  as  the  author  of  the  beautiful  and 
powerful  song :  “  What  is  the  German  father-land  ?  ”  I  saw 
before  me  a  vigorous,  ruddy  old  man  with  silvery  hair ;  he 
spoke  Swedish  to  me,  a  language  which  he  had  learnt,  when, 
as  refugee  on  Napoleon’s  account,  he  visited  our  neighboring 
country  ;  he  was  a  youthful  and  brisk  old  man  ;  I  was  not  un¬ 
known  to  him,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  took  so  much  inter¬ 
est  in  me  because  I  was  a  Scandinavian.  In  the  course  of  our 
conversation  a  stranger  was  announced  :  neither  of  us  heard 
his  name  ;  he  was  a  young,  handsome  man  with  a  bold,  sun¬ 
burnt  face.  He  sat  quietly  down  by  the  door  and  did  not 
speak  until  Arndt  showed  me  out,  when  he  rose,  and  Arndt 
exclaimed  joyfully,  “  Emanuel  Geibel  !  ”  Yes,  it  was  he,  the 
young  poet  from  Liibeck,  whose  fresh,  beautiful  songs  in  a 
short  time  echoed  through  the  German  countries,  and  to  whom 
the  King  of  Prussia  had  given  a  kind  of  pension  as  well  as  to 
Frieligrath  :  Geibel  was  just  going  to  visit  Frieligrath  at  St. 
Goar,  and  was  to  spend  several  months  with  him.  Now  he 
would  not  let  me  go  till  I  had  made  acquaintance  with  the 
poet.  Geibel  was  a  very  handsome,  powerful,  and  fresh  young 
man  ;  as  he  stood  by  the  side  of  the  hale  old  poet,  I  saw  in 
those  two,  the  young  and  the  old,  the  picture  of  Poetry  always 
blooming. 

“  The  child  of  fortune,”  an  English  author  once  called  me, 
and  I  must  gratefully  acknowledge  all  the  blessings  I  have 
enjoyed  during  my  life  ;  the  great  opportunity  I  have  had  to 
meet  with  and  become  acquainted  with  the  most  noble  and 
best  men  of  my  time.  I  tell  all  this  as  I  have  told  before  that 
which  was  miserable,  humiliating,  and  depressing ;  and  if  I 
have  done  so  in  the  spirit  which  was  at  work  in  my  soul,  it 
will  not  be  called  pride  or  vanity  ;  neither  of  them  would 
assuredly  be  the  proper  name  for  it.  It  is  from  abroad  that  I 
have  received  acknowledgment  and  honor  ;  but  people  may 
perhaps  ask  at  home,  Has  he  then  never  been  attacked  in  for 
eign  countries  ?  I  must  reply,  No  ! 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


201 


No  regular  attack  has  been  made  upon  me,  at  least  they 
have  never  at  home  called  my  attention  to  any  such,  and  there¬ 
fore  there  certainly  cannot  have  been  anything  of  the  kind,  — 
with  the  exception  of  one  which  made  its  appearance  in  Ger¬ 
many,  but  which  originated  in  Denmark,  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  was  in  Paris. 

A  certain  Mr.  Boas  made  a  journey  at  that  time  through 
Scandinavia,  and  wrote  a  book  on  the  subject.  In  this  he 
gave  a  sort  of  survey  of  Danish  literature,  which  he  also  pub¬ 
lished  in  the  journal  called  “  Die  Grenzboten  ;  ”  in  this  I  was 
very  severely  handled  as  a  man  and  as  a  poet.  Several  other 
Danish  poets  also,  as,  for  instance,  Christian  Winther,  have  an 
equally  great  right  to  complain.  Mr.  Boas  had  drawn  his 
information  out  of  the  miserable  gossip  of  every-day  life  ;  his 
work  excited  attention  in  Copenhagen,  but  nobody  there 
would  allow  themselves  to  be  considered  as  his  informants  ; 
nay,  even  Holst  the  poet,  who,  as  may  be  seen  from  the  work, 
travelled  with  him  through  Sweden,  and  had  received  him  at 
his  house  in  Copenhagen,  on  this  occasion  published,  in  one 
of  the  most  widely  circulated  of  our  papers,  a  declaration  that 
he  was  in  no  way  connected  with  Mr.  Boas. 

Mr.  Boas  had  in  Copenhagen  attached  himself  to  a  partic¬ 
ular  clique  consisting  of  a  few  young  men  ;  he  had  heard  them, 
full  of  lively  spirits,  talking  during  the  day  of  the  Danish 
poets  and  their  writings  ;  he  had  then  gone  home,  written 
down  what  he  had  heard,  and  afterward  published  it  in  his 
work.  This  was,  to  use  the  mildest  term,  inconsiderate. 
That  my  *  Improvisatore  ”  and  “  Only  a  Fiddler  ”  did  not 
please  him,  is  a  matter  of  taste,  and  to  that  I  must  submit 
myself.  But  when  he,  before  the  whole  of  Germany,  where 
probably  people  will  presume  that  what  he  has  written  is  true, 
if  he  declare  it  to  be,  as  is  the  case,  the  universal  judgment 
against  me  in  my  native  land  ;  when  he,  I  say,  declared  me 
before  the  whole  of  Germany  to  be  the  most  haughty  of  men, 
he  inflicts  upon  me  a  deeper  wound  than  he  perhaps  imagined. 
He  conveyed  the  voice  of  a  party,  formerly  hostile  to  me,  into 
foreign  countries.  Nor  is  he  true  even  in  that  which  he  rep¬ 
resents  ;  he  gives  circumstances  as  racts,  which  never  took 
place. 


202 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LTFE. 


In  Denmark  what  he  had  written  could  not  injure  me,  and 
many  have  declared  themselves  afraid  of  coming  into  contact 
with  any  one  who  printed  everything  which  he  heard.  His 
book  was  read  in  Germany,  the  public  of  which  is  now  also 
mine  ;  and  I  believe,  therefore,  that  I  may  here  say  how 
faulty  is  his  view  of  Danish  literature  and  Danish  poets  —  in 
what  manner  his  book  was  received  in  my  native  land,  and 
that  people  there  know  in  what  way  it  was  put  together. 
But  after  I  have  expressed  myself  thus  on  this  subject  I  will 
gladly  offer  Mr.  Boas  my  hand ;  and  if,  on  his  next  visit  to 
Denmark,  no  other  poet  will  receive  him,  I  will  do  my  utmost 
for  him  ;  I  know  that  he  will  not  be  able  to  judge  me  more 
severelv  when  we  know  each  other  than  when  we  knew  each 

j 

other  not.  His  judgment  would  also  have  been  quite  of  an¬ 
other  character  had  he  come  to  Denmark  but  one  year  later  ; 
things  changed  very  much  in  a  year’s  time.  Then  the  tide 
had  turned  in  my  favor  ;  I  then  had  published  my  new  chil¬ 
dren’s  stories,  of  which  from  that  moment  to  the  present  there 
prevailed,  through  the  whole  of  my  native  land,  but  one  un¬ 
changing  honorable  opinion.  When  the  edition  of  my  collec¬ 
tion  of  stories  came  out  at  Christmas,  1843,  the  reaction 
began  ;  acknowledgment  of  my  merits  was  made,  and  favor 
shown  me  in  Denmark,  and  since  that  time  I  have  no  cause 
for  complaint.  I  have  obtained  and  I  obtain  in  my  own  land 
that  which  I  deserve  —  nay,  perhaps  much  more. 

I  will  now  turn  to  those  little  stories  which  in  Denmark 
have  been  placed  by  every  one,  without  any  hesitation,  higher 
than  anything  else'  I  had  hitherto  written. 

In  my  book  “  In  the  Hartz  Mountains  ”  one  finds  properly 
my  first  wonder  story,  in  the  section  “  Brunswick,”  where  it 
appears  as  a  bit  of  irony  in  the  drama  “  Three  Days  in  the 
Life  of  a  Looking-glass  ;  ”  in  the  same  book  one  also  finds 
the  first  suggestion  of  “  The  Little  Mermaid  ;  ”  the  description 
of  the  Elves  belongs  quite  to  this  class  of  writing.  Only  a  few 
months  after  the  “  Improvisatore  ”  appeared,  in  1835, 1  brought 
out  my  first  volume  of  “  Wonder  Stories,”  1  which  at  that  time 

1  The  Danish  term  Eventyr ,  used  by  Andersen,  is  not  properly  rendered 
by  anyone  word  in  English  ;  it  includes  those  stories  in  which  the  marvel 
©us  and  superhuman  predominate,  just  as  Hitforier,  used  by  Anderses 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


203 


was  not  so  ve  ry  much  thought  of.  One  monthly  critical  journa 
even  complained  that  an  author  who  had  taken  such  a  step 
forward  in  the  “  Improvisatore,”  should  immediately  fall  back 
with  anything  so  childish  as  the  tales.  I  reaped  a  harvest  of 
blame,  precisely  where  people  ought  to  have  acknowledged 
the  advantage  of  my  mind  producing  something  in  a  new 
direction.  Several  of  my  friends,  whose  judgment  was  cf 
value  to  me,  counseled  me  entirely  to  abstain  from  writing 
tales,  as  these  were  a  something  for  which  I  had  no  talent. 
Others  were  of  opinion  that  I  had  better,  first  of  all,  study  the 
French  fairy  tale. 

The  “  Monthly  Journal  of  Literature  ”  paid  no  attention  to 
the  book,  nor  has  it  done  so  since.  “  Dannora,”  edited  and 
published  by  J.  N.  Host,  was  in  1S36  the  only  one  that  gave  a 
notice,  which  reads  amusingly  now,  though  at  the  time  it  natur¬ 
ally  grieved  me.  The  reviewer  says  that  “  These  ‘  Wonder 
Stories  ’  will  be  able  to  amuse  children,  but  they  are  so  far  from 
containing  anything  instructive  that  the  critic  hardly  ventures  to 
recommend  them  as  harmless  reading  ;  at  least  nobody  will 
maintain  that  a  child’s  sense  of  decency  will  be  sharpened 
when  it  reads  about  a  princess  who  rides  in  her  sleep  on  a 
dog’s  back  to  a  soldier  who  kisses  her,  after  which  she  her¬ 
self,  wide-awake,  tells  of  this  fine  adventure  —  as  a  wonderful 
dream,”  etc.  The  story  of  the  “  Princess  on  Pease,”  the  re¬ 
viewer  finds,  has  no  wit,  and  it  strikes  him  “not  only  as  indel¬ 
icate  but  positively  without  excuse,  as  putting  the  notion  into  a 
child’s  head  that  a  lady  of  such  rank  must  always  be  excess¬ 
ively  refined.”  The  reviewer  concludes  with  the  wish  that 
the  author  may  not  waste  any  more  time  in  writing  wonder 
stories  for  children.  I  would  willingly  have  discontinued 
writing  them,  but  they  forced  themselves  from  me. 

In  the  volume  which  I  first  published,  I  had,  like  Musaus, 
but  in  my  own  manner,  related  old  stories,  which  I  had  heard 
as  a  child.  The  tone  in  which  they  still  sounded  in  my  ears 

ror  certain  other  of  his  stories,  denotes  those  which  are  more  matter  of 
tact,  more  what  we  call  narrative.  The  title  Wonder  Stories  has  been  used 
in  this  edition  of  Andersen’s  writings,  though  with  regret,  for  it  is  a  some¬ 
what  awkward  and  affected  term.  Under  this  conviction  the  title  of  thia 
autobiography  has  been  made  to  read  7he  Story  of  My  Life ,  instead  of, 
more  exactly,  The  Wonder  Story  of  My  Lijc.  — Editor. 


204 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


seemed  a  ve/y  natural  one  to  me,  but  I  knew  very  well  that 
the  learned  critics  would  censure  the  style  of  talk,  so,  to  quiet 
them  I  called  them  “Wonder  Stories  told  for  Children,1 ”  al¬ 
though  my  intention  was  that  they  should  be  for  both  young 
and  old.  The  volume  concluded  with  one  which  was  original, 
“  Little  Ida’s  Flowers,”  and  seemed  to  have  given  the  great¬ 
est  pleasure,  although  it  bore  a  tolerably  near  affinity  to  n 
story  of  Hoffman’s,  and  I  had  already  given  it  in  substance 
in  my  “  Foot  Journey.”  In  my  increasing  disposition  for 
children’s  stories,  I  therefore  followed  my  own  impulse,  and 
invented  them  mostly  myself.  In  the  following  year  a  new 
volume  came  out,  and  soon  after  that  a  third,  in  which  the 
longest  story,  “  The  Little  Mermaid,”  was  my  own  invention. 
This  story,  in  an  especial  manner,  created  an  interest  which 
was  only  increased  by  the  following  volumes.  One  of  tnese 
came  out  every  Christmas,  and  before  long  no  Christmas-tree 
could  exist  without  my  stories. 

Some  of  our  first  comic  actors  made  the  attempt  of  relating 
my  little  stories  from  the  stage  ;  it  was  something  new,  and  a 
complete  change  from  the  declamatory  poetry  which  had  been 
heard  to  satiety.  “  The  Constant  Tin  Soldier,”  therefore,  “  The 
Swineherd,”  and  “  The  Top  and  Ball,”  were  told  from  the 
royal  stage,  and  from  those  of  private  theatres,  and  were  well 
received.  In  order  that  the  reader  might  be  placed  in  the 
proper  point  of  view,  with  regard  to  the  manner  in  which  I 
told  the  stories,  I  had  called  my  first  volume  “  Stories  told  for 
Children.”  I  had  written  my  narrative  down  upon  paper, 
exactly  in  the  language,  and  with  the  expressions  in  which  I 
had  myself  related  them,  by  word  of  moutn,  to  the  little  ones, 
and  I  had  arrived  at  the  conviction  that  people  of  different 
ages  were  equally  amused  with  them.  The  children  made 
themselves  merry  for  the  most  part  over  what  might  be  called 
the  actors  ;  older  people,  on  the  contrary,  were  interested  in 
the  deeper  meaning.  The  stories  furnished  reading  for  chil¬ 
dren  and  grown  people,  and  that  assuredly  is  a  difficult  task 
for  those  who  will  write  children’s  stories.  They  met  with 
open  doors  and  open  hearts  in  Denmark  ;  everybody  read 
them.  I  now  removed  the  words,  “told  for  children,”  from 
my  title,  and  published  three  volumes  of  “  New  Stories,”  al 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


20< 
w 

of  which  weie  of  mv  own  invention,  and  were  received  in 
my  own  country  with  the  greatest  favor.  I  could  not  wish 
it  greater  ;  I  felt  a  real  anxiety  in  consequence,  a  fear  of  not 
being  able  to  justify  afterward  such  an  honorable  award  of 
praise. 

A  refreshing  sunshine  streamed  into  my  heart  ;  I  felt  courage 
and  joy,  and  was  filled  with  a  living  desire  of  still  more  and 
more  developing  my  powers  in  this  direction,  —  of  studvmg 
more  thoroughly  this  class  of  writing,  and  of  observing  sail 
more  attentivelv  the  rich  wells  of  nature  out  of  which  I  must 

j 

create  it.  If  attention  be  paid  to  the  order  in  which  my  stories 
are  written,  it  certainly  will  be  seen  that  there  is  in  them 
a  gradual  progression,  a  clearer  working  out  of  the  idea,  a 
greater  discretion  in  the  use  of  agency,  and,  if  I  may  so  speak, 
a  more  healthy  tone  and  a  more  natural  freshness  may  be 
perceived. 

As  one  step  by  step  toils  up  a  steep  hill,  I  had  at  home 
climbed  upward,  and  now  beheld  myself  recognized  and 
honored,  appointed  a  distinct  place  in  the  literature  of  my 
country.  This  recognition  and  kindness  at  home  atoned  for 
all  the  hard  words  that  the  critics  had  spoken.  Within  me 
was  clear  sunshine  ;  there  came  a  sense  of  rest,  a  feeling  that 
all,  even  the  bitter  in  my  life,  had  been  needful  for  my  develop¬ 
ment  and  my  fortune. 

My  “  Stories  ”  were  translated  into  most  of  the  European 
languages  ;  several  versions  in  German,  as  also  in  English  and 
French,  followed  and  continued  still  to  be  issued  ;  translations 
have  been  published  also  in  Swedish,  Flemish,  Dutch  etc.,  and 
by  following  the  path  our  Lord  has  shown  me,  I  have  been 
favored  more  than  if  I  had  followed  the  way  of  criticism,  that 
advised  me  “  to  study  French  models.”  If  I  had  done  so,  I 
should  scarcely  have  been  translated  into  French,  or,  as  now  is 
the  case,  been  compared  in  one  of  the  French  editions  with 
Lafontaine  and  my  “  Stories  ”  with  his  “  fables  immortelles,” 
—  “Nouveau  Lafontaine,  il  fait  parler  les  betes  avec  esprit, 
il  s’associe  a  eurs  peines,  a  leurs  plaisirs,  semble  devenir  leur 
confidentleur  interprete,  et  sait  leur  creer  un  langage  si  naif, 
si  piquant,  et  si  naturel  qu’il  ne  semble  que  la  reproduction 
fidble  de  ce  qu’il  a  veritablement  entendu  ;  ”  neither  should  I 


20  6 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


have  attained,  at  least  in  one  direction,  that  influence  upon  the 
literature  of  my  country  which  I  hope  I  have. 

From  1834  till  1852,  wonder  stories  followed  in  various 
volumes  and  in  several  different  publications,  when  they  were 
issued  in  one  collection  in  an  illustrated  edition,  —  the  later 
ones  classed  under  the  title  “Tales”  ( Historier ),  a  name  not 
chosen  arbitrarily ;  but  of  this  I  will  say  a  few  words  further 

OIL 


CHAPTER  XI. 


AT  this  period  of  my  life  I  made  an  acquaintance  which 
was  of  great  moral  and  intellectual  importance  to  me. 
I  have  already  spoken  of  several  persons  and  public  charac¬ 
ters  who  have  had  influence  on  me  as  a  poet ;  but  none  of 
these  have  had  more,  nor  in  a  nobler  sense  of  the  word,  than 
the  lady  to  whom  I  here  turn  myself,  —  she,  through  whom  I, 
at  the  same  time,  was  enabled  to  forget  my  own  individual 
self,  to  feel  that  which  is  holy  in  art,  and  to  become  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  command  which  God  has  given  to  genius. 

I  now  turn  back  to  the  year  1840.  One  day  in  the  hotel  in 
which  I  lived  in  Copenhagen,  I  saw  the  name  of  Jenny  Lind 
among  those  of  the  strangers  from  Sweden.  I  was  aware  at 
that  time  that  she  was  the  first  singer  in  Stockholm.  I  had 
been  that  same  year  in  this  neighbor  country,  and  had  there 
met  with  honor  and  kindness :  I  thought,  therefore,  that  it 
would  not  be  unbecoming  in  me  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  young 
artist.  She  was,  at  this  time,  entirely  unknown  out  of  Sweden, 
so  that  I  was  convinced  that,  even  in  Copenhagen,  her  name 
was  known  only  by  few.  She  received  me  very  courteously, 
but  yet  distantly,  almost  coldly.  She  was,  as  she  said,  on  a 
journey  with  her  father  to  South  Sweden,  and  had  come  over 
to  Copenhagen  for  a  few  days  in  order  that  she  might  see  this 
city.  We  again  parted  distantly,  and  I  had  the  impression  of 
a  very  ordinary  character  which  soon  passed  away  from  my 
mind. 

In  the  autumn  of  1843,  Jenny  Lind  came  again  to  Copen¬ 
hagen.  One  of  my  friends,  our  clever  ballet-master,  Bournon- 
ville,  who  has  married  a  Swedish  lady,  a  friend  of  Jenny  Lind, 
informed  me  of  her  arrival  here,  and  told  me  that  she  remem¬ 
bered  me  very  kindly,  and  that  now  she  had  read  my  writings. 
He  entreated  me  to  go  with  him  to  her,  and  to  employ  all  my 
persuasive  art  to  induce  her  to  take  a  few  parts  at  the  Theatre 


2C)S 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Royal  ;  I  should,  he  said,  be  then  quite  enchanted  with  what 
I  should  hear. 

I  was  pot  now  received  as  a  stranger ;  she  cordially  ex¬ 
tended  to  me  her  hand,  and  spoke  of  my  writings  and  of  Miss 
Fredrika  Bremer,  who  also  was  her  affectionate  friend.  The 
conversation  soon  turned  on  her  appearance  in  Copenhagen, 
and  of  this  Jenny  Lind  declared  that  she  stood  in  fear. 

“  I  have  never  made  my  appearance,”  said  she,  “  out  of 
Sweden  ;  everybody  in  my  native  land  is  so  affectionate  and 
kind  to  me,  and  if  I  made  my  appearance  in  Copenhagen  and 
should  be  hissed  !  —  I  dare  not  venture  on  it  !  ” 

I  said,  that  I,  it  was  true,  could  not  pass  judgment  on  her 
singing,  because  I  had  never  heard  it,  neither  did  I  know  how 
she  acted,  but  nevertheless  I  was  convinced  that  such  was  the 
disposition  at  this  moment  in  Copenhagen,  that  only  a  moder¬ 
ate  voice  and  some  knowledge  of  acting  would  be  successful ; 
I  believed  that  she  might  safely  venture.  * 

Bournonville’s  persuasion  obtained  for  the  Copenhageners 
the  greatest  enjoyment  which  they  ever  had. 

Jenny  Lind  made  her  first  appearance  among  them  as  Alia 
in  “Robert  le  Diable  ;  ”  it  was  like  a  new  revelation  in  the 
realms  of  art ;  the  youthfully  fresh  voice  forced  itself  into  every 
heart;  here  reigned  truth  and  nature;  everything  was  full  of 
meaning  and  intelligence.  At  one  concert  Jenny  Lind  sang 
her  Swedish  songs  ;  there  was  something  so  peculiar  in  this, 
so  bewitching ;  people  thought  nothing  about  the  concert 
room  ;  the  popular  melodies  uttered  by  a  being  so  purely 
feminine,  and  bearing  the  universal  stamp  of  genius,  exercised 
their  omnipotent  sway ;  the  whole  of  Copenhagen  was  in 
raptures.  Jenny  Lind  was  the  first  singer  to  whom  the  Danish 
students  gave  a  serenade :  torches  blazed  around  the  hospita¬ 
ble  villa  where  the  serenade  was  given  :  she  expressed  her 
thanks  by  again  singing  some  Swedish  songs,  and  I  then  saw 
her  hasten  into  the  darkest  corner  and  weep  for  emotion. 

“  Yes,  yes,”  said  she,  “  I  will  exert  myself,  I  will  endeavor  , 
I  will  be  better  qualified  than  I  am  when  I  again  come  to 
Copenhagen.” 

On  the  stage  she  was  the  great  artiste  who  rose  above  ah 
those  around  her ;  at  home,  in  her  own  chamber,  a  sensitive 
young  girl  with  all  the  humility  and  piety  of  a  child. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


209 


Her  appearance  in  Copenhagen  made  an  epoch  in  the 
history  of  our  opera ;  it  showed  me  art  in  its  sanctity  ;  I  had 
beheld  one  of  its  vestals.  She  journeyed  back  to  Stockholm, 
and  from  there  Fredrika  Bremer  wrote  to  me  :  “  With  regard 
to  Jenny  Lind  as  a  singer,  we  are  both  of  us  perfectly  agreed ; 
she  stands  as  high  as  any  artist  of  our  time  can  stand  ;  but  as 
yet  you  do  not  know  her  in  her  full  greatness.  Speak  to  her 
about  her  art,  and  you  will  wonder  at  the  expansion  of  her 
mind,  and  will  see  her  countenance  beaming  with  inspiration. 
Converse  then  with  her  of  God,  and  of  the  holiness  of  religion, 
and  you  will  see  tears  in  those  innocent  eyes  ;  she  is  great  as 
an  artist,  but  she  is  still  greater  in  her  pure  human  exist¬ 
ence  !  ” 

In  the  following  year  I  was  in  Berlin  ;  the  conversation 
with  Meyerbeer  turned  upon  Jenny  Lind  ;  he  had  heard  her 
sing  her  Swedish  songs  and  was  transported  by  them. 

“  But  how  does  she  act  ?  ”  asked  he. 

I  spoke  in  raptures  of  her  acting,  and  gave  him  at  the  same 
time  some  idea  of  her  representation  of  Alice.  He  said  to 
me  that  perhaps  it  might  be  possible  for  him  to  induce  her  to 
come  to  Berlin. 

It  is  sufficiently  well  known  that  she  made  her  appearance 
there,  threw  every  one  into  astonishment  and  delight,  and  won 
for  herself  in  Germany  a  European  name.  Last  autumn  she 
came  again  to  Copenhagen,  and  the  enthusiasm  was  incredible 
the  glory  of  renown  makes  genius  perceptible  to  every  one. 
People  bivouacked  regularly  before  the  theatre,  to  obtain  a 
ticket.  Jenny  Lind  appeared  still  greater  than  ever  in  her 
art,  because  one  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  her  in  many 
and  such  extremely  different  parts.  Her  Norma  is  plastic 
every  attitude  might  serve  as  the  most  beautiful  model  to  a 
sculptor,  and  yet  people  felt  that  those  were  the  inspiration  of 
the  moment,  and  had  not  been  studied  before  the  glass. 
Norma  is  no  raving  Italian  ;  she  is  the  suffering,  sorrowing 
woman  —  the  woman  possessed  of  a  heart  to  sacrifice  herself 
for  an  unfortunate  rival  —  the  woman  to  whom,  in  the  violence 
of  the  moment,  the  thought  may  suggest  itself  of  murdering 
the  children  of  a  faithless  lover,  but  who  is  immediately  dis¬ 
armed  when  she  gazes  into  the  eyes  or  the  innocent  cues. 

14 


2  IO 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


“  Norma,  thou  holy  priestess  !  ”  sings  the  chorus,  and  Jenny 
Lind  has  comprehended  and  shows  to  us  this  holy  priestess  in 
the  aria,  “  Casta  diva.”  In  Copenhagen  she  sang  all  her  parts 
in  Swedish,  and  the  other  singers  sang  theirs  in  Danish,  and 
the  two  kindred  languages  mingled  very  beautifully  together  ; 
there  was  no  jarring  ;  even  in  the  “  Daughter  of  the  Regiment,’* 
where  there  is  a  deal  of  dialogue,  the  Swedish  had  something 
agreeable  :  and  what  acting  !  nay,  the  word  itself  is  a  contra¬ 
diction  —  it  was  nature  ;  anything  as  true  never  before  ap¬ 
peared  on  the  stage.  She  shows  us  perfectly  the  true  child 
of  nature  grown  up  in  the  camp,  but  an  inborn  nobility  per¬ 
vades  every  movement.  The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment  and 
the  Som?iambule  are  certainly  Jenny  Lind’s  most  unsurpass¬ 
able  parts  ;  no  second  can  take  their  places  in  these  beside 
her.  People  laugh,  they  cry ;  it  does  them  as  much  good  as 
going  to  church  ;  they  become  better  for  it.  People  feel  that 
God  is  in  art ;  and  where  God  stands  before  us  face  to  face 
there  is  a  holy  church. 

“  There  will  not  in  a  whole  century,”  said  Mendelssohn, 
speaking  to  me  of  Jenny  Lind,  “be  born  another  being  so 
gifted  as  she ;  ”  and  his  words  expressed  my  full  conviction  ; 
one  feels,  as  she  makes  her  appearance  on  the  stage,  that  she 
is  a  pure  vessel,  from  which  a  holy  draught  will  be  presented 
to  us. 

There  is  not  anything  which  can  lessen  the  impression 
which  Jenny  Lind’s  greatness  on  the  stage  makes,  except  her 
own  personal  character  at  home.  An  intelligent  and  child¬ 
like  disposition  exercises  here  its  astonishing  power ;  she  is 
happy,  —  belonging,  as  it  were,  no  longer  to  the  world  ;  a  peace¬ 
ful,  quiet  home,  is  the  object  of  her  thoughts  ;  and  yet  she 
loves  art  with  her  whole  soul,  and  feels  her  vocation  in  it.  A 
noble,  pious  disposition  like  hers  cannot  be  spoiled  by  homage. 
On  one  occasion  only  did  I  hear  her  express  her  joy  in  her 
talent  and  her  self-consciousness.  It  was  during  her  last 
residence  in  Copenhagen.  Almost  every  evening  she  appeared 
either  in  the  opera  or  at  concerts  ;  every  hour  was  in  requisition. 
She  heard  of  a  society,  the  object  of  which  was  to  assist  un¬ 
fortunate  children,  and  to  take  them  out  of  the  hands  of  thei 
parents  by  whom  they  were  misused,  and  compelled  either  to 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


21  I 


beg  or  steal,  and  to  place  them  in  other  and  better  circum¬ 
stances.  Benevolent  people  subscribed  annually  a  small  sum 
each  for  their  support,  nevertheless  the  means  for  this  excellent 
purpose  were  small. 

“But  have  I  not  still  a  disengaged  evening?”  said  she; 
:i  let  me  give  a  night’s  performance  for  the  benefit  of  these 
poor  children  ;  but  we  will  have  double  prices  !  ” 

Such  a  performance  was  given,  and  returned  large  pn> 
ceeds  ;  when  she  was  informed  of  this,  and  that,  by  this 
means,  a  number  of  poor  children  would  be  benefited  for  sev¬ 
eral  years,  her  countenance  beamed,  and  the  tears  filled  her 
eyes. 

“  Is  it  not  beautiful,”  said  she,  “  that  I  can  sing  so  !  ” 

I  value  her  with  the  feeling  of  a  brother,  and  I  regard 
myself  as  happy  that  I  know  and  understand  such  a  spirit. 
God  give  to  her  that  peace,  that  quiet  happiness  which  she 
wishes  for  herself ! 

Through  Jenny  Lind  I  first  became  sensible  of  the  holiness 
there  is  in  art ;  through  her  I  learned  that  one  must  forget 
one’s  self  in  the  service  of  the  Supreme.  No  books,  no  men 
have  had  a  better  or  a  more  ennobling  influence  on  me  as  the 
poet,  than  Jenny  Lind,  and  I  therefore  have  spoken  of  her  so 
long  and  so  warmly  here. 

I  have  made  the  happy  discovery  by  experience,  that  inas¬ 
much  as  art  and  life  are  more  clearly  understood  by  me,  so 
much  more  sunshine  from  without  has  streamed  into  my  soul. 
What  blessings  have  not  compensated  me  for  the  former  dark 
days !  Repose  and  certainty  have  forced  themselves  into  my 
heart.  Such  repose  can  easily  unite  itself  with  the  changing 
life  of  travel ;  I  feel  myself  everywhere  at  home,  attach  myself 
easily  to  people,  and  they  give  me  in  return  confidence  and 
rordiality. 

In  the  summer  of  1844  I  once  more  visited  North  Germany. 
An  intellectual  and  amiable  family  in  Oldenburg  had  invited 
me  in  the  most  friendly  manner  to  spend  some  time  at  their 
house.  Count  von  Rantzau-Breitenburg  repeated  also  in  his 
letters  how  welcome  I  should  be  to  him.  I  set  out  on  the 
journev,  and  this  journey  was,  if  not  one  of  my  longest,  still 
one  of  my  most  interesting.  « 


212 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  saw  the  rich  marsh-land  in  its  summer  luxuriance,  anc! 
made  with  Rantzau  several  interesting  little  excursions.  Brei- 
tenburg  lies  in  the  middle  of  woods  on  the  river  Stbr  ;  the 
steam  voyage  to  Hamburg  gives  animation  to  the  little  river  ; 
the  situation  is  picturesque,  and  life  in  the  castle  itself  is 
comfortable  and  pleasant.  I  could  devote  myself  wholly  to 
reading  and  poetry,  because  I  was  just  as  free  as  the  bird  in 
the  air,  and  I  was  as  much  cared  for  as  if  I  had  been  a  be¬ 
loved  relation  of  the  family.  Alas  !  it  was  the  last  time  that  I 
came  hither  ;  Count  Rantzau  had,  even  then,  a  presentiment 
of  his  approaching  death.'  One  day  we  met  in  the  garden  ; 
he  seized  my  hand,  pressed  it  warmly,  expressed  his  pleasure 
in  my  talents  being  acknowledged  abroad,  and  his  friendship 
for  me,  adding,  in  conclusion,  “  Yes,  my  dear  young  friend, 
God  only  knows,  but  I  have  the  firm  belief  that  this  year  is 
the  last  time  when  we  two  shall  meet  here  ;  my  days  will 
soon  have  run  out  their  full  course.”  He  looked  at  me  with 
so  grave  an  expression  that  it  touched  my  heart  deeply,  but 
I  knew  not  what  to  say.  We  were  near  to  the  chapel ;  he 
opened  a  little  gate  between  some  thick  hedges,  and  we  stood 
in  a  garden,  in  which  was  a  turfed  grave  and  a  seat  be¬ 
side  it. 

“  Here  you  will  find  me,  when  you  come  the  next  time  to 
Breitenburg,”  said  he,  and  his  sorrowful  words  were  true. 
He  died  the  following  winter  in  Wiesbaden.  I  lost  in  him  a 
friend,  a  protector,  a  noble,  excellent  heart. 

When  I,  on  the  first  occasion,  went  to  Germany,  I  visited 
the  Hartzgebirge  and  Saxon  Switzerland.  Goethe  was  still  liv¬ 
ing.  It  was  my  most  heartfelt  wish  to  see  him.  It  was  not 
far  from  the  Hartz  to  Weimar,  but  I  had  no  letters  cf  intro¬ 
duction  to  him,  and,  at  that  time,  not  one  line  of  my  writings 
was  translated.  Many  persons  had  described  Goethe  to  rne 
as  a  very  proud  man,  and  the  question  arose  whether  indeed 
he  would  receive  me.  I  doubted  it,  and  determined  not  to  go 
to  Weimar  until  I  should  have  written  some  work  which 
would  convey  my  name  to  Germany.  I  succeeded  in  this, 
but  alas !  Goethe  was  already  dead. 

I  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  his  daughter-in-law.  Mrs 
rc>n  Goethe,  born  Pogwitsch,  at  the  house  of  Mendelssohn 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


213 

Bartholdy,  in  Leipsic,  on  my  return  from  Constantinople  ;  this 
ipirituelle  lady  received  me  with  much  kindness.  She  told 
me  that  her  son  Walter  had  been  my  friend  for  a  long  time  : 
that  as  a  boy  he  had  made  a  whole  play  out  of  my  “  Improvi- 
satore  ” ;  that  this  piece  had  been  performed  in  Goethe’s 
house;  and  lastly,  that  Walter  had  once  wished  to  go  to 
Copenhagen  to  make  my  acquaintance.  I  thus  had  now 
friends  in  Weimar. 

An  extraordinary  desire  impelled  me  to  see  this  city  where 
Goethe,  Schiller,  Wieland,  and  Herder  had  lived,  and  from 
which  so  much  light  had  streamed  forth  over  the  world.  I 
approached  that  land  which  had  been  rendered  sacred  by 
Luther,  by  the  strife  of  the  Minnesingers  on  the  Wartburg, 
and  by  the  memory  of  many  noble  and  great  events. 

On  the  24th  of  June,  the  birthday  of  the  Grand  Duke,  I 
arrived  a  stranger  in  the  friendly  town.  Everything  indicated 
the  festivity  which  was  then  going  forward,  and  the  young 
prince  was  received  with  great  rejoicing  in  the  theatre,  where 
a  new  opera  was  being  given.  I  did  not  think  how  firmly 
the  most  glorious  and  the  best  of  all  those  whom  I  here  saw 
around  me  would  grow  into  my  heart ;  how  many  of  my 
future  friends  sat  around  me  here  —  how  dear  this  city  would 
become  to  me  —  in  Germany,  my  second  home.  I  was  invited 
by  Goethe’s  worthy  friend,  the  excellent  Chancellor  Miiller, 
and  I  met  with  the  most  cordial  reception  from  him.  By 
accident  I  here  met,  on  my  first  call,  with  the  Kammerherr 
Beaulieu  de  Marconnay,  whom  I  had  known  in  Oldenburg  ; 
he  was  now  living  in  Weimar.  He  invited  me  to  remove  to 
his  house.  In  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  I  was  established 
as  his  guest,  and  I  felt  “  it  is  good  to  be  here.” 

There  are  people  whom  it  only  requires  a  few  days  to  know 
and  to  love  ;  I  won  in  Beaulieu,  in  these  few  days,  a  friend, 
as  I  believe,  for  my  whole  life.  He  introduced  me  into  the 
family  circle  ;  the  amiable  chancellor  received  me  equally  cor¬ 
dially  ;  and  I  who  had,  on  my  arrival,  fancied  myself  quite 
forlorn,  because  Mrs.  von  Goethe  and  her  son  Walter  were  in 
Vienna,  was  now  known  in  Weimar,  and  well  received  in  all 
»ts  circles. 

The  reigning  Grand  Duke  and  Duchess  gave  me  so  gra 


214 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


cious  and  kind  a  reception  as  made  a  deep  imp  recsion  upon 
me.  After  I  had  been  presented,  I  was  invited  to  dine,  and 
soon  after  received  an  invitation  to  visit  the  hereditary  Grand 
Duke  and  his  lady  at  the  hunting  seat  of  Ettersburg,  which 
stands  high,  and  close  to  an  extensive  forest.  The  old  fash- 
\oned  furniture  within  the  house,  and  the  distant  views  from 
the  park  into  the  Hartz  Mountains,  produced  immediately  a 
peculiar  impression.  All  the  young  peasants  had  assembled 
at  the  castle  to  celebrate  the  birthday  of  their  beloved  young 
Duke  ;  climbing-poles,  from  which  fluttered  handkerchiefs  and 
ribbons,  were  erected  ;  fiddles  sounded,  and  people  danced 
merrily  under  the  branches  of  the  large  and  flowering  lime- 
trees.  Sabbath  splendor,  contentment,  and  happiness  were 
diffused  over  the  whole. 

The  young  and  but  new  married  princely  pair  seemed  to  be 
united  by  true  heartfelt  sentiment.  The  heart  must  be  able 
to  forget  the  star  on  the  breast  under  which  it  beats,  if  its 
possessor  wishes  to  remain  long  free  and  happy  in  a  court ; 
and  such  a  heart,  certainly  one  of  the  noblest  and  best  which 
beats,  is  possessed  by  Karl  Alexander  of  Saxe-Weimar.  I 
had  the  happiness  of  making  a  long  enough  stay  to  establish 
this  belief.  During  this,  my  first  residence  here,  I  came 
several  times  to  the  happy  Ettersburg.  The  young  Duke 
showed  me  the  garden,  and  the  tree  on  the  trunk  of  which 
Goethe,  Schiller,  and  Wieland  had  cut  their  names  ;  nay  even 
Jupiter  himself  had  wished  to  add  his  to  theirs,  fqr  his  thun¬ 
der-bolt  had  splintered  it  in  one  of  the  branches. 

The  intellectual  Mrs.  von  Gross  (Amalia  Winter),  Chan¬ 
cellor  von  Muller,  —  who  was  able  to  illustrate  the  times  of 
Goethe  and  to  explain  his  “  Faust,”  —  and  the  soundly  honest 
and  child-like  minded  Eckermann,  belonged  to  the  circle  at 
Ettersburg.  The  evenings  passed  like  a  spiritual  dream  ; 
-alternately  some  one  read  aloud  ;  even  T  ventured,  for  the 
first  time  in  a  foreign  language  to  me,  to  read  one  of  my  own 
tales,  —  “The  Constant  Tin  Soldier.” 

Chancellor  von  Muller  accompanied  me  to  the  princely 
burial-place,  where  Karl  August  sleeps  with  his  glorious  wife, 
-—not  between  Schiller  and  Goethe,  as  I  believed  when  I  wrote, 
—  ■'  The  prince  has  made  for  himself  a  rainbow  glory,  whils. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


215 

he  stands  between  the  sun  and  the  rushing  waterfall.”  Close 
beside  the  princely  pair,  who  understood  and  valued  that 
which  was  great,  repose  these  their  immortal  friends.  With¬ 
ered  laurel  garlands  lay  upon  the  simple  brown  coffins,  of 
which  the  whole  magnificence  consists  in  the  immortal  name! 
of  Goethe  and  Schiller.  In  life,  the  prince  and  the  poet 
walked  side  by  side  ;  in  death,  they  slumber  under  the  same 
vault.  Such  a  place  as  this  is  never  effaced  from  the  mind  ; 
in  such  a  spot  those  quiet  prayers  are  offered,  which  God 
alone  hears. 

I  remained  above  eight  days  in  Weimar  ;  it  seemed  to  me 
as  if  I  had  formerly  lived  in  this  city  ;  as  if  it  were  a  beloved 
home  which  I  must  now  leave.  As  I  drove  out  of  the  city, 
over  the  bridge  and  past  the  mill,  and  for  the  last  time  looked 
back  to  the  city  and  the  castle,  a  deep  melancholy  took  hold 
on  my  soul,  and  it  was  to  me  as  if  a  beautiful  portion  of  my 
life  here  had  its  close  ;  I  thought  that  the  journey,  after  I  had 
left  Weimar,  could  afford  me  no  more  pleasure.  How  often 
since  that  time  has  the  carrier-pigeon,  and  still  more  fre¬ 
quently,  the  mind,  flown  over  to  this  place  !  Sunshine  has 
streamed  forth  from  Weimar  upon  my  poet-life. 

From  Weimar  I  went  to  Leipsic,  where  a  truly  poetical 
evening  awaited  me  with  Robert  Schumann.  This  great 
composer  had  a  year  before  surprised  me  by  the  honor  of 
dedicating  to  me  the  music  which  he  had  composed  to  four 
of  my  songs  ;  the  lady  of  Dr.  Frege,  whose  singing,  so  full  of 
soul,  has  pleased  and  enchanted  so  many  thousands,  accom¬ 
panied  Clara  Schumann,  and  the  composer  and  the  poet  were 
alone  the  audience  :  a  little  festive  supper  and  a  mutual  inter¬ 
change  of  ideas  shortened  the  evening  only  too  much.  I  met 
with  the  old,  cordial  reception  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Brockhaus, 
to  which  from  former  visits  I  had  almost  accustomed  mvself. 
The  circle  of  mv  friends  increased  in  the  German  cities  ;  but 
the  first  heart  is  still  that  to  which  we  most  gladly  turn  again. 

I  found  in  Dresden  old  friends  with  youthful  feelings  ;  my 
gifted  half-countryman  Dahl,  the  Norwegian,  who  knows  how 
upon  canvas  to  make  the  waterfall  rush  foaming  down,  and 
ihe  birch-tree  to  grow  as  in  the  valleys  of  Norway,  and  Vogel 
von  Vogelsteit .  who  did  me  the  honor  of  painting  my  portrait, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


2  l6 

which  was  included  in  the  royal  collection  of  portraits.  The 
theatre  intendant,  Herr  von  Liittichau,  provided  me  every 
evening  with  a  seat  in  the  manager’s  box  ;  and  one  of  the 
noblest  ladies,  in  the  first  circles  of  Dresden,  the  worthy 
Baroness  von  Decken,  received  me  as  a  mother  would  receive 
her  son.  In  this  character  I  was  ever  afterward  received  in 
her  family  and  in  the  amiable  circle  of  her  friends. 

How  bright  and  beautiful  is  the  world  !  How  good  ar’, 
human  beings  !  That  it  is  a  pleasure  to  live  becomes  ever 
more  and  more  clear  to  me. 

Beaulieu’s  younger  brother,  Edmund,  who  is  an  officer  in 
the  army,  came  one  day  from  Tharand,  where  he  had  spent 
the  summer  months.  I  accompanied  him  to  various  places, 
spent  some  happy  days  among  the  pleasant  scenery  of  the 
hills,  and  was  received  at  the  same  time  into  various  families. 

I  visited  with  the  Baroness  Decken,  for  the  first  time,  the 
celebrated  and  clever  painter  Retsch,  who  has  published  the 
bold  outlines  of  Goethe,  Shakespeare,  etc.  He  lives  a  sort  of 
Arcadian  life  among  lowly  vineyards  on  the  way  to  Meissen. 
Every  year  he  makes  a  present  to  his  wife,  on  her  birthday, 
of  a  new  drawing,  and  always  one  of  his  best  ;  the  collection 
has  grown  through  a  course  of  years  to  a  valuable  album, 
which  she,  if  he  die  before  her,  is  to  publish.  Among  the 
many  glorious  ideas  there,  one  struck  me  as  peculiar;  the 
“  Flight  into  Egypt.”  It  is  night ;  every  one  sleeps  in  the  pic¬ 
ture, —  Mary,  Joseph,  the  flowers,  and  the  shrubs,  nay  even 
the  ass  which  carries  her  —  all,  except  the  child  Jesus,  who, 
with  open,  round  countenance,  watches  over  and  illumines  all. 
I  related  one  of  my  stories  to  him,  and  for  this  I  received  a 
lovely  drawing,  —  a  beautiful  young  girl  hiding  herself  behind 
the  mask  of  an  old  woman  ;  thus  should  the  eternallv  vouthful 
soul,  with  its  blooming  loveliness,  peep  forth  from  behind  the 
old  mask  of  the  fairy  tale.  Retsch's  pictures  are  rich  in 
thought,  full  of  beauty,  and  a  genial  spirit. 

I  enjoyed  the  country  life  of  Germany  with  Major  Serre  and 
his  amiable  wife  at  their  splendid  residence  in  Maxen  ;  it  is 
not  possible  for  any  one  to  exercise  greater  hospitality  than  is 
shown  by  these  two  kind-hearted  people.  A  circle  of  intelli* 
pent,  interesting  individuals,  were  here  assembled  ;  I  re 


THF  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


217 


mained  among  them  above  eight  days,  and  there  became 
acquainted  with  Kohl  the  traveller,  and  the  clever  authoress, 
the  Countess  Hahn- Hahn,  in  whom  1  discerned  a  woman  by 
disposition  and  individual  character  in  whom  confidence  may 
be  placed.  Her  novels  and  travels  at  that  time  were  much 
read,  and  she  has  since,  on  account  of  her  conversion  to  the 
Catholic  faith  and  her  “From  Babylon  to  Jerusalem,”  been 
again  talked  about.  It  is  said  that  her  father  is  famous  for  his 
unbounded  love  of  the  dramatic  art,  so  that  at  lasr  he  was 
almost  always  absent  from  his  estates  going  about  with  his 
company  of  comedians.  She  married  her  cousin,  the  wealthy 
Count  Hahn-Hahn,  but  a  divorce  followed,  and  from  that  time 
she  published  poems,  novels,  and  travels.  Much  is  said  and 
said  in  blame  about  the  prominent  characteristics  of  her 
novels,  especially  their  air  of  superiority,  and  people  have 
accused  her  of  introducing  thus  her  own  personality,  but 
that  is  not  the  impression  made  upon  me.  She  travelled  and 
always  lived  with  the  Baron  Bystram,  a  very  amiable  gentle¬ 
man.  Every  one  said  and  believed  that  they  were  married, 
and  as  such  they  were  also  received  in  the  very  highest  so¬ 
ciety.  When  I  once  asked  the  reason  why  the  marriage  was 
kept  concealed,  they  gave  as  a  probable  reason,  that  if  she 
married  again,  she  would  lose  the  large  annuity  she  drew 
from  her  first  husband,  and  without  that  sum  she  could  not 
get  along.  As  authoress  she  has  been  harshly  attacked  ;  her 
position  as  a  writing  nun,  or,  if  you  will,  a  Catholic  missionary 
woman,  has  something  about  it  very  unnatural  and  unhealthy, 
but  site  is  truly  of  a  noble  nature  and  a  rarely  gifted  woman. 
It  is  a  pity  that  the  talents  she  received  from  God  have  not 
brought  forth  here  the  flowers  and  fruits  which  they  might 
perhaps  have  produced  under  other  circumstances.  Toward 
me  she  was  considerate  and  kind.  It  was  through  the  dark 
glass  of  my  “  Only  a  Fiddler  ”  and  my  “  Wonder  btories  ” 
that  she  thought  me  a  poet. 

Where  or  e  is  well  received,  there  one  gladly  lingers.  I 
found  myself  unspeakably  happy  on  this  little  journey  in  Ger¬ 
many,  and  became  convinced  that  I  was  there  no  stranger. 
It  was  heart  and  truth  to  nature  which  people  valued  in  my 
writings  ;  and,  however  excellent  and  praiseworthy  the  ex 


2l8 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


terior  beauty  may  be,  however  imposing  the  maxims  of  this 
world’s  wisdom,  still  it  is  heart  and  nature  which  have  least 
changed  by  time,  and  which  everybody  is  best  able  to  under¬ 
stand. 

I  returned  home  by  way  of  Berlin,  where  I  had  not  been  for 
several  years  ;  but  the  dearest  of  my  friends  there  —  Chamisso 
was  dead. 

The  fair  wild  swan  which  flew  far  o’er  the  earth 

And  laid  its  head  upon  a  wild  swan’s  breast, 

was  now  flown  to  a  more  glorious  hemisphere ;  I  saw  his 
children,  who  were  now  fatherless  and  motherless.  From  the 
young  who  here  surround  me,  I  discover  that  I  am  grown 
older ;  I  feel  it  not  in  myself.  Chamisso’s  sons,  whom  I  saw 
the  last  time  playing  here  in  the  little  garden  with  bare  necks, 
came  now  to  meet  me  with  helmet  and  sword :  they  were 
officers  in  the  Prussian  service.  I  felt  in  a  moment  how  the 
years  had  rolled  on,  how  everything  was  changed,  and  how  one 
loses  so  many. 

Yet  is  it  not  so  hard  as  people  deem, 

To  see  their  souls’  beloved  from  them  riven  ; 

God  has  their  dear  ones,  and  in  death  they  seem 
To  form  a  bridge  which  leads  them  up  to  heaven. 

I  met  with  the  most  cordial  reception,  and  have  since  then 
always  met  with  the  same,  in  the  house  of  the  Minister 
Savigny,  where  I  became  acquainted  with  the  clever,  singularly 
gifted  Bettina,  and  her  lovely,  spiritual-minded  daughters,  — 
the  youngest  of  whom  had  written  the  poetic  fairy  tale,  “  The 
Mud  King’s  Daughter.”  They  introduced  me  to  their  mother 
with  “Now,  what  do  you  say  of  him  !”  Bettina  scanned  me, 
and  passed  her  hand  over  my  face  :  “  Passab;£  I  ”  said  she, 
and  went  away,  but  came  back  again,  affectionate  and  full  of 
originality.  One  hour’s  conversation  with  Bettina,  during 
which  she  was  the  chief  speaker,  was  so  rich  and  full  of 
interest,  that  I  was  almost  rendered  dumb  by  all  this  eloquence, 
this  fire-work  of  wit.  In  the  evening  when  the  company  broke 
up,  she  let  her  carriage  return  empty  while  we  v  alked  togethei 
up  the  street  “  Unter  den  Linden  ;  ”  the  prince  of  \V urtemberg 
gave  her  his  arm,  while  I  went  with  the  young  girls.  At 


THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE. 


219 


Meinharclt’s  Hotel,  where  I  lived,  we  stopped,  Bettina  placed 
herself  before  the  staircase,  made  a  military  salute  with  the 
hand,  and  said  :  “  Good-night,  comrade  :  sleep  well  !  ”  A  few 
days  after,  visiting  her  in  her  home,  she  appeared  then  in  an¬ 
other  way,  quite  as  lively,  but  not  so  outward  in  her  jests  ;  she 
impressed  me  as  profound  and  kind.  The  world  knows  her 
writings,  but  another  talent  which  she  is  possessed  of  is  less 
generally  known,  namely  her  talent  for  drawing.  Here  again 
it  is  the  ideas  which  astonish  us.  It  was  thus,  I  observed,  she 
had  treated  in  a  sketch  an  accident  which  had  occurred  just 
before,  —  a  young  man  being  killed  by  the  fumes  of  wine. 
You  saw  him  descending  half-naked  into  the  cellar,  round 
which  lay  the  wine  casks  like  monsters  :  Bacchanals  and  Bac¬ 
chantes  danced  toward  him,  seized  their  victim,  and  destroyed 
him  !  I  know  that  Thorwaldsen,  to  whom  she  once  showed  all 
her  drawings,  was  in  the  highest  degree  astonished  by  the 
ideas  they  contained. 

It  does  the  heart  much  good  when  abroad  to  find  a  house, 
where,  when  immediately  you  enter,  eyes  flash  like  festal 
lamps,  a  house  where  you  can  take  peeps  into  a  quiet,  happy 
domestic  life,  —  such  a  house  is  that  of  Professor  Weiss.  Yet 
how  many  new  acquaintances  which  were  found,  and  old 
acquaintances  which  were  renewed,  ought  I  not  to  mention  ! 
I  met  Cornelius  from  Rome,  Schelling  from  Munich,  my 
countryman  I  might  almost  call  him  —  Steffens  the  Norwegian, 
and  once  again  Tieck,  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  my  first 
visit  to  Germany.  He  was  very  much  altered,  yet  his  gentle, 
wise  eyes  were  the  same,  the  shake  of  his  hand  was  the  same. 
I  felt  that  he  loved  me  and  wished  me  well.  I  must  visit  him 
in  Potsdam,  where  he  lived  in  ease  and  comfort.  At  dinner 
I  became  acquainted  with  his  brother  the  sculptor. 

From  Tieck  I  learnt  how  kindly  the  King  and  Queen  of 
Prussia  were  disposed  toward  me ;  that  they  had  read  my 
romance  of  “  Only  a  Fiddler,”  and  inquired  from  Tieck  about 
me.  Meantime  their  Majesties  were  absent  from  Berlin.  I 
i  had  arrived  the  evening  before  their  departure,  when  that 
abominable  attempt  was  made  upon  their  lives. 

I  returned  to  Copenhagen  by  Stettin  in  stormy  weather,  full 
of  the  joy  of  life,  and  again  saw  my  dear  firiends,  and  in  a  few 


2  20 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


days  set  off  to  Count  Moltke’s  in  Funen,  there  to  spend  a  few 
lively  summer  days.  I  here  received  a  letter  from  the  minister 
Count  Rantzau-Breitenburg,  who  was  with  the  King  and  Queen 
of  Denmark  at  the  watering-place  of  Fohr.  He  wrote,  saying 
that  he  had  the  pleasure  of  announcing  to  me  the  most  gracious 
invitation  of  their  Majesties  to  Fohr.  This  island,  as  is  well 
known,  lies  in  the  North  Sea,  not  far  from  the  coast  of  Sles- 
wick,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  interesting  Halligs,  those 
little  islands  which  Biernatzki  described  so  charmingly  in  his 
novels.  Thus,  in  a  manner  wholly  unexpected  by  me,  I  should 
see  scenery  of  a  very  peculiar  character,  even  in  Denmark. 

The  favor  of  my  king  and  queen  made  me  happy,  and  I 
rejoiced  to  be  once  more  in  close  intimacy  with  Rantzau. 
Alas,  it  was  for  the  last  time  ! 

It  was  just  now  five-and-twenty  years  since  I,  a  poor  lad. 
travelled  alone  and  helpless  to  Copenhagen.  Exactly  the  five 
and-twentieth  anniversary  would  be  celebrated  by  my  being 
with  my  king  and  queen,  to  .whom  I  was  faithfully  attached, 
and  whom  I  at  that  very  time  learned  to  love  with  my  whole 
soul.  Everything  that  surrounded  me,  man  and  nature,  re¬ 
flected  themselves  imperishably  in  my  soul.  I  felt  myself,  as 
it  were,  conducted  to  a  point  from  which  I  could  look  forth 
more  distinctly  over  the  past  five-and-twenty  years,  with  all 
the  good  fortune  and  happiness  which  they  had  evolved  for 
me.  The  reality  frequently  surpasses  the  most  beautiful 
dream. 

I  travelled  from  Funen  to  Flensborg,  which,  lying  in  its 
great  bay,  is  picturesque  with  woods  and  hills,  and  then  im¬ 
mediately  opens  out  into  a  solitary  heath.  Over  this  I  travelled 
in  the  bright  moonlight.  The  journey  across  the  heath  was 
tedious  ;  the  clouds  only  passed  rapidly.  We  went  on  monot¬ 
onously  through  the  deep  sand,  and  monotonous  was  the  wail 
of  a  bird  among  the  shrubby  heath.  Presently  we  reached 
moorlands.  Long-continued  rain  had  changed  meadows  and 
corn-fields  into  great  lakes  ;  the  embankments  along  which  we 
drove  were  like  morasses ;  the  horses  sank  deeply  into  them, 
In  many  places  the  light  carriage  was  obliged  to  be  supported 
by  the  peasants,  that  it  might  not  fall  upon  the  cottages  below 
the  embankment.  Several  hours  were  consumed  over  each 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


221 


mile  (Danish).  At  length  the  North  Sea  with  its  islands  lay 
before  me.  The  whole  coast  was  an  embankment,  covered 
for  miles  with  woven  straw,  against  which  the  waves  broke. 
I  arrived  at  high  tide.  The  wind  was  favorable,  and  in  less 
than  an  hour  I  reached  Fohr,  which,  after  my  difficult  journey, 
appeared  to  me  like  a  real  fairy  land. 

The  largest  city,  Wyck,  in  which  are  the  baths,  is  built  ex¬ 
actly  like  a  Dutch  town.  The  houses  are  only  one  story  high, 
with  sloping  roofs  and  gables  turned  to  the  street.  The  many 
strangers  there,  and  the  presence  of  the  court,  gave  a  peculiar 
animation  to  the  principal  street.  Well-known  faces  looked 
out  from  almost  every  house  ;  the  Danish  flag  waved,  and  mu¬ 
sic  was  heard.  It  was  as  if  I  had  come  to  a  festival ;  the  sailors 
from  the  ship  carried  my  luggage  to  the  hotel.  Not  far  from 
the  landing-place,  near  the  one-story  dwelling  where  the  royal 
couple  lived,  we  saw  a  large  wooden  house,  at  the  open  win¬ 
dows  of  which  ladies  were  moving  about ;  they  looked  out  and 
shouted  :  “  Welcome,  Mr.  Andersen  !  Welcome.”  The  sail¬ 
ors  bowed  low,  and  took  off  their  hats.  I  had  all  along  been 
an  unknown  guest  to  them,  now  I  became  a  person  of  consid¬ 
eration,  because  the  ladies  who  saluted  me  were  the  young 
Princesses  of  Augustenburg  and  their  mother,  the  Duchess. 
I  had  just  taken  my  place  at  the  table  d’hote,  and  was,  as  a 
new  guest,  an  object  of  curiosity,  when  a  royal  footman  entered 
with  an  invitation  from  their  Majesties  to  dinner,  which  had 
begun,  but  the  king  and  queen  had  heard  of  my  arrival,  and 
had  kept  a  place  at  table  ready  for  me. 

Their  Majesties  had  provided  lodging  for  me ;  during  my 
whole  stay  there  I  took  breakfast,  dinner,  and  supper  with  the 
royal  family,  and  Rantzau-Breitenburg.  These  were  beautiful 
and  bright  poetical  days  for  me,  — days  that  will  never  come 
back.  It  is  so  good  to  see  a  noble  human  nature  reveal  itself 
where  one  might  expect  to  find  only  the. king’s  crown  and  the 
purple  mantle.  Few  people  could  be  more  amiable  in  private 
life  than  the  then  reigning  Majesties  of  Denmark.  May  God 
bless  them,  and  give  them  joy,  even  as  they  filled  my  breast 
with  happiness  and  sunshine !  On  several  evenings  I  read 
2loud  some  of  my  little  stories;  “The  Nightingale”  and 
*  The  Swineherd  ”  seemed  to  please  the  King  most,  and  were 


222 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


therefore  repeated  several  evenings.  My  talent  of  extemporiz* 
ing  was  discovered  one  evening.  One  of  the  courtiers  recited 
in  joke  a  kind  of  jingle  for  the  young  Princesses  of  Augusten- 
burg  ;  I  stood  near  by  and  added  in  fun,  “  You  do  not  say 
your  verse  rightly  :  I  know  it  better  ;  you  must  say  ”  —  and 
now  I  made  an  impromptu.  They  jested  and  laughed  ;  it  was 
heard  in  the  next  room  where  the  King  sat  at  the  card-table ; 
he  asked  what  was  the  matter,  and  I  repeated  my  impromptu. 
Now  they  all  tried  to  extemporize  and  I  helped  them  along. 
“  And  have  I  not  made  a  poem  all  alone  ?  ”  asked  General 
Ewald,  who  was  playing  at  cards  with  the  King ;  “  will  you  not 
be  so  kind  as  to  recite  for  me  one  of  my  best  ?  ” 

“Ewald’s  poems  are  well  knowm  to  the  King,  and  to  the 
whole  country  !  ”  said  I,  and  turned  away,  when  Queen  Caro¬ 
line  Amelia  said,  “  Do  you  not  remember  something  that 
I  have  thought  and  felt  ?  ”  I  wished  to  recite  some  worthy 
lines,  and  answered,  “  Certainly,  your  Majesty  :  I  have  written 
something  down,  and  will  bring  it  to-morrow.” 

“  You  remember  it,  I  am  sure  !  ”  she  repeated.  They  urged 
me,  and  I  extemporized  the  following  strophe,  which  is  printed 
among  the  shorter  verses  in  my  poems  :  — 

PRAYER. 

O  God,  our  Rock  when  storms  do  rage, 

Thou  art  our  Sun,  our  life  the  shade  : 

Strengthen  the  King  in  this  tempestuous  age, 

For  Denmark’s  hope  on  him  is  stayed. 

May  his  hand  wreath  the  flag  with  flowers, 

And  honor  Love  and  every  purpose  grand  ; 

And  when  Thou  judgest  this  great  world  of  ours, 

Pure  as  a  lily  may  sea-girt  Denmark  stand. 

I  sailed  in  their  train  to  the  largest  of  the  Halligs, —  those 
grassy  runes  in  the  ocean,  which  bear  testimony  to  a  sunken 
country.  The  violence  of  the  sea  has  changed  the  main-land 
into  islands,  has  riven  these  again,  and  buried  men  and  vil¬ 
lages.  Year  after  year  are  new  portions  rent  away,  and.  in 
half  a  century’s  time,  there  will  be  nothing  here  but  sea.  The 
Halligs  are  now  only  low  islets  covered  with  a  dark  turf,  or 
which  a  few  flocks  graze.  When  the  sea  rises  these  are  driven 
into  the  garrets  of  the  houses,  and  the  waves  roll  over  this  lit 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


223  ^ 

tie  region,  which  is  miles  distant  from  the  shore.  Gland, 
which  we  visited,  contains  a  little  town.  The  houses  stand 
closely  side  by  side,  as  if,  in  their  sore  need,  they  would  all 
huddle  together.  They  are  all  erected  upon  a  platform,  and 
have  little  windows,  as  in  the  cabin  of  a  ship.  There,  in  the 
.ittle  room,  solitary  through  half  the  year,  sit  the  wife  and  her 
daughters  spinning.  There,  however,  one  always  finds  a  little 
collection  of  books.  I  found  books  in  Danish,  German,  and 
Frisian.  The  people  read  and  work,  and  the  sea  rises  round 
the  houses,  which  lie  like  a  wreck  in  the  ocean.  Sometimes, 
in  the  night,  a  ship,  having  mistaken  the  lights,  drives  on  here 
and  is  stranded. 

In  the  year  1825,  a  tempestuous  tide  washed  away  men  and 
houses.  The  people  sat  for  days  and  nights  half  naked  upon 
the  roofs,  till  these  gave  way  ;  nor  from  Fohr  nor  the  main-land 
could  help  be  sent  to  them.  The  church-yard  is  half  washed 
away  ;  coffins  and  corpses  are  frequently  exposed  to  view  by 
the  breakers  :  it  is  an  appalling  sight.  And  yet  the  inhab¬ 
itants  of  the  Halligs  are  attached  to  their  little  home.  They 
cannot  remain  on  the  main-land,  but  are  driven  thence  by 
homesickness. 

We  found  only  one  man  upon  the  island,  and  he  had  onlv 
lately  arisen  from  a  sick-bed.  The  others  were  out  on  long 
voyages.  We  were  received  by  girls  and  women.  They  had 
erected  before  the  church  a  triumphal  arch  with  flowers  which 
they  had  fetched  from  Fohr ;  but  it  was  so  small  and  low  that 
one  was  obliged  to  go  round  it ;  nevertheless  they  showed  by 
it  their  good-will.  The  Queen  was  deeply  affected  by  their 
having  cut  down  their  only  shrub,  a  rose-bush,  to  lay  over  3 
marshy  place  which  she  would  have  to  cross.  The  girls  art 
pretty,  and  are  dressed  in  a  half  Oriental  fashion.  The  peo¬ 
ple  trace  their  descent  from  Greeks.  They  wear  their  faces 
half  concealed,  and  beneath  the  strips  of  linen  which  lie  upon 
the  head  is  placed  a  Greek  fez,  around  which  the  hair  is  wound 
in  plaits. 

On  our  return,  dinner  was  served  on  board  the  royal 
steamer  ;  and  afterward,  as  we  sailed  in  a  glorious  sunset 
through  this  archipelago,  the  deck  of  the  vessel  was  changed 
to  a  dancing  room.  Young  and  old  danced  \  servants  flew 


.  224 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


hither  and  thither  with  refreshments ;  sailors  stood  upon  the 
paddle-boxes  and  took  the  soundings,  and  their  deep-toned 
voices  might  be  heard  giving  the  depth  of  the  water.  The 
moon  rose  round  and  large,  and  the  promontory  of  Amron 
assumed  the  appearance  of  a  snow-covered  chain  of  Alps. 

I  visited  afterward  these  desolate  sand  hills  :  the  King  went 
to  shoot  rabbits  there.  Many  years  ago  a  ship  was  wrecked 
here,  on  board  of  which  were  two  rabbits,  and  from  this  pair 
Amron  is  now  stored  with  thousands  of  their  descendants. 
At  low  tide  the  sea  recedes  wholly  from  between  Amron 
and  Fohr,  and  then  people  drive  across  from  one  island  to 
another ;  but  still  the  time  must  be  well  observed  and  the 
passage  accurately  known,  or  else,  when  the  tide  comes,  he 
who  crosses  will  be  inevitably  lost.  It  requires  only  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  where  dry  land  was  large  ships  may  sail. 
We  saw  a  whole  row  of  wagons  driving  from  Fohr  to  Amron. 
Seen  upon  the  white  sand  and  against  the  blue  horizon,  they 
seemed  to  be  twice  as  large  as  they  really  were.  All  around 
were  spread  out,  like  a  net,  the  sheets  of  water,  as  if  they 
held  firmly  the  extent  of  sand  which  belonged  to  the  ocean 
and  which  would  be  soon  overflowed  by  it.  This  promontory 
brings  to  one’s  memory  the  mounds  of  ashes  at  Vesuvius  ; 
for  here  one  sinks  at  every  step,  the  wiry  moor-grass  not  being 
ible  to  bind  together  the  loose  sand.  The  sun  shone  burn- 
ingly  hot  between  the  white  sand  hills  :  it  was  like  a  journey 
through  the  deserts  of  Africa. 

A  peculiar  kind  of  rose  and  the  heath  were  in  flower  in  the 
valleys  between  the  hills  ;  in  other  places  there  was  no  vege¬ 
tation  whatever  ;  nothing  but  the  wet  sand  on  which  the 
waves  had  left  their  impress  ;  the  sea  on  its  receding  had 
inscribed  strange  hieroglyphics.  I  gazed  from  one  of  the 
highest  points  over  the  North  Sea  ;  it  was  ebb-tide  ;  the  sea 
had  retired  about  a  mile  ;  the  vessels  lay  like  dead  fishes 
upon  the  sand,  awaiting  the  returning  tide.  A  few  sailors 
had  clambered  down  and  moved  about  on  the  sandy  ground 
like  black  points.  Where  the  sea  itself  kept  the  white  leve1 
sand  in  movement,  a  long  bank  elevated  itself,  which,  during 
the  time  of  high  water,  is  concealed,  and  upon  which  cccui 
many  wrecks.  I  saw  the  lofty  wooden  tower  which  is  here 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


225 


erected,  and  in.  which  a  cask  is  always  kept  filled  with  water, 
and  a  basket  supplied  with  bread  and  brandy,  that  the  unfor¬ 
tunate  human  beings  who  are  here  stranded  may  be  able  in 
this  place,  amid  the  swelling  sea,  to  preserve  life  for  a  few 
days  until  it  is  possible  to  rescue  them. 

To  return  from  such  a  scene  as  this  to  a  royal  table,  a 
charming  court  concert,  and  a  little  ball  in  the  bath-saloon,  as 
wrell  as  to  the  promenade  by  moonlight,  thronged  with  guests, 
a  little  Boulevard,  had  something  in  it  like  a  fairytaie,  —  it 
wras  a  singular  contrast. 

As  I  sat  on  the  above-mentioned  five-and-twentieth  anni¬ 
versary,  on  the  5th  of  September,  at  the  royal  dinner  table, 
the  whole  of  my  former  life  passed  in  review  before  my  mind. 
I  was  obliged  to  summon  all  my  strength  to  prevent  myself 
from  bursting  into  tears.  There  are  moments  of  thankfulness 
in  which,  as  it  were,  we  feel  a  desire  to  press  God  to  our  hearts. 
How  deeply  I  felt,  at  this  time,  my  own  nothingness  ;  how 
all,  all,  had  come  from  him.  Rantzau  knew  what  an  interest¬ 
ing  day  this  was  to  me.  After  dinner  the  King  and  the  Queen 
wished  me  happiness,  and  that  so  —  graciously,  is  a  poor 
word  —  so  cordially,  so  sympathizingly  !  The  King  wished 
me  happiness  in  that  which  I  had  endured  and  won.  He 
asked  me  about  my  first  entrance  into  the  world,  and  I  re¬ 
lated  to  him  some  characteristic  incidents. 

In  the  course  of  conversation  he  inquired  if  I  had  not  some 
certain  yearly  income  :  I  named  the  sum  to  him. 

“  That  is  not  much,”  said  the  King. 

“  But.  I  do  not  require  much,”  replied  I,  “  and  my  writings 
procure  me  something.” 

The  King,  in  the  kindest  manner,  inquired  further  into  my 
circumstances,  and  closed  by  saying,  — 

“  If  I  can,  in  any  way,  be  serviceable  to  your  literary  labors, 
then  come  to  me.” 

In  the  evening,  during  the  concert,  the  conversation  was 
*enewred,  and  some  of  those  who  stood  near  me  reproached 
me  for  not  having  made  use  of  my  opportunity. 

“  The  King,”  said  they,  “  put  the  very  words  into  your 
mouth.” 

But  I  could  not,  I  would  not  have  done  it.  “  If  the  King, 


226 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  said,  u  found  that  I  required  something  more,  he  could  give 
it  to  me  of  his  own  will.” 

And  I  was  not  mistaken.  In  the  following  year  King 
Christian  VIII.  increased  my  annual  stipend,  so  that  with  this 
and  that  which  my  writings  bring  in,  I  can  live  honorably  and 
free  from  care.  My  King  gave  it  to  me  out  of  the  pure 
good-will  of  his  own  heart.  King  Christian  is  enlightened, 
clear-sighted,  with  a  mind  enlarged  by  science ;  the  gracious 
sympathy,  therefore,  which  he  has  felt  in  my  fate  is  to  me 
doubly  cheering  and  ennobling. 

The  5th  of  September  was  to  me  a  festival  day :  even  the 
German  visitors  at  the  baths  honored  me  by  drinking  my 
health  in  the  pump-room. 

So  many  battering  circumstances,  some  people  argue,  may 
easily  spoil  a  man,  and  make  him  vain.  But,  no ;  they  do  not 
spoil  him,  they  make  him  on  the  contrary  —  better ;  they 
purify  his  mind,  and  he  must  thereby  feel  an  impulse,  a  wish, 
to  deserve  all  that  he  enjoys.  At  my  parting  audience  with 
the  Queen,  she  gave  me  a  valuable  ring  as  a  remembrance  of 
our  residence  at  Fohr  ;  and  the  King  again  expressed  himself 
full  of  kindness  and  noble  sympathy.  God  bless  and  preserve 
this  exalted  pair ! 

The  Duchess  of  Augustenburg  was  at  this  time  also  at  Fohr 
with  her  two  eldest  daughters.  I  had  daily  the  happiness  of 
being  with  them,  and  received  repeated  invitations  to  take 
Augustenburg  on  my  return.  For  this  purpose  I  went  from 
Fohr  to  Als,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  islands  in  the  Baltic. 
That  little  region  resembles  a  blooming  garden  ;  luxuriant 
corn  and  clover-fields  are  inclosed  with  hedges  of  hazels  and 
wild  roses ;  the  peasants’  houses  are  surrounded  by  large 
apple  orchards,  full  of  fruit.  Wood  and  hill  alternate.  Now 
we  see  the  ocean,  and  now  the  narrow  Lesser  Belt,  which  re¬ 
sembles  a  river.  The  castle  of  Augustenburg  is  magnificent, 
with  its  garden  full  of  flowers,  extending  down  to  the  verv 
shores  of  the  serpentine  bay.  I  met  with  the  most  cordial 
reception,  and  found  the  most  amiable  family  life  in  the  ducal 
circle.  I  spent  fourteen  days  here,  and  was  present  at  the 
birthday  festivities  of  the  Duchess,  which  lasted  three  days  * 


TIIE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  227 

among  these  festivities  was  racing,  and  the  town  and  the  castle 
were  filled  with  people. 

Happy  domestic  life  is  like  a  beautiful  summer’s  evening  \ 
the  heart  is  filled  with  peace  ;  and  everything  around  derives 
a  peculiar  glory.  The  full  heart  says,  “  It  is  good  to  lie  hci®  j* 
and  this  I  felt  at  Augustenburg. 


CHAPTER  XII. 


IN  the  spring  of  1844  I  had  finished  a  dramatic  tale,  u  For¬ 
tune’s  Flower.”  The  idea  of  this  was,  that  it  is  not 
the  immortal  name  of  the  artist,  nor  the  splendor  of  a  crown 
which  can  make  man  happy ;  but  that  happiness  is  to  be  found 
where  people,  satisfied  with  little,  love  and  are  loved  again. 
The  scene  was  perfectly  Danish,  an  idyllian,  sunbright  life,  in 
whose  clear  heaven  two  dark  pictures  are  reflected  as  in  a 
dream ;  the  unfortunate  Danish  poet  Ewald,  and  Prince  Buris, 
who  is  tragically  sung  of  in  our  heroic  ballads.  I  wished  to 
show,  in  honor  of  our  times,  the  Middle  Ages  to  have  been 
dark  and  miserable,  as  they  were,  but  which  many  poets  only 
represent  to  us  in  a  beautiful  light. 

Professor  Heiberg,  who  was  appointed  censor,  declared  him¬ 
self  against  the  reception  of  my  piece.  During  the  last  years 
I  had  met  with  nothing  but  hostility  from  this  party  :  I  regarded 
it  as  personal  ill-will,  and  this  was  to  me  still  more  painful 
than  the  rejection  of  the  pieces.  It  was  painful  for  me  to  be 
placed  in  a  constrained  position  with  regard  to  a  poet  whom  I 
respected,  and  toward  whom,  according  to  my  own  conviction, 
I  had  done  everything  in  order  to  obtain  a  friendly  relation¬ 
ship.  A  further  attempt,  however,  must  be  made.  I  wrote 
to  Heiberg,  expressed  myself  candidly,  and,  as  I  thought, 
cordially,  and  entreated  him  to  give  me  explicitly  the  reasons 
for  his  rejection  of  the  piece  and  for  his  ill-will  toward  me. 
He  immediately  paid  me  a  visit,  which  I,  not  being  at  home 
when  he  called,  returned  on  the  following  day,  and  I  was  re¬ 
ceived  in  the  most  friendly  manner.  The  visit  and  the  con¬ 
versation  belong  certainly  to  the  extraordinary,  but  they  occa¬ 
sioned  an  explanation,  and  I  hope  led  to  a  better  understand¬ 
ing  for  the  future. 

He  clearly  set  before  me  his  views  in  the  rejection  of  my 
piece.  Seen  from  his  point  of  sight  they  were  unquestionably 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  MFE. 


2  29 


correct :  but  they  were  not  mine,  and  thus  we  could  not  agree. 
He  declared  decidedly  that  he  cherished  no  spite  against  me, 
and  that  he  acknowledged  my  talent  I  mentioned  his  various 
attacks  upon  me,  for  example,  in  the  “  Intelligencer,”  and  that 
he  had  denied  to  me  original  invention  :  I  imagined,  however, 
that  I  had  shown  this  in  my  novels  ;  “  But  of  these,”  said  J, 
“you  have  read  none  ;  you  yourself  have  told  me  so.” 

“  Yes,  that  is  the  truth,”  replied  he  ;  “  I  have  not  yet  read 
them,  but  I  will  do  so.” 

“  Since  then,”  continued  I,  “  you  have  turned  me  and  my 
“Bazaar”  to  ridicule  in  your  poem  called  “Denmark,”  and 
spoken  about  my  fanaticism  for  the  beautiful  Dardanelles  ; 
and  yet  I  have,  precisely  in  that  book,  described  the  Darda¬ 
nelles  as  not  beautiful  ;  it  is  the  Bosphorus  which  I  thought 
beautiful  ;  you  seem  not  to  be  aware  of  that ;  perhaps  you 
have  not  read  ‘  The  Bazaar  ’  either  ?  ” 

“  Was  it  the  Bosphorus  ?  ”  said  he,  with  his  own  peculiar 
smile  ;  “  yes,  I  had  quite  forgotten  that,  and,  you  see,  people 
do  not  remember  it  either;  the  object  in  this  case  was  only  to 
give  you  a  stab.” 

This  confession  sounded  so  natural,  so  like  him,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  smile.  I  looked  into  his  clever  eyes,  thought  how 
many  beautiful  things  he  had  written,  and  I  could  not  be 
angry  with  him.  The  conversation  became  more  lively,  more 
free,  and  he  said  many  kind  things  to  me  ;  for  example,  he 
esteemed  my  stories  very  highly,  and  entreated  me  frequently 
to  visit  him.  I  have  become  more  and  more  acquainted  with 
his  poetical  temperament,  and  I  fancy  that  he  too  will  under¬ 
stand  mine.  We  are  very  dissimilar,  but  we  both  strive  after 
the  same  object.  Before  we  separated  he  conducted  me  to 
his  little  observatory  ;  now  his  dearest  world.  He  seems 
now  to  live  for  poetry  and  now  for  philosophy,  and  —  for 
which  I  fancy  he  is  least  of  all  calculated  —  for  astronomy. 
Recent  years,  in  which  I  have  acquired  so  many  blessings 
have  brought  me  also  the  appreciation  of  that  gifted  genius. 

But  to  follow  the  succession  of  time  :  the  dramatic  tale  was 
brought  on  the  stage,  and  in  the  course  of  the  season  was 
performed  seven  times  and  was  then  laid  to  rest,  at  least 
under  that  theatrical  management.  I  have  often  asked  my 


230 


THE  STORY  OF  AIY  LIFE. 


self  the  question,  Is  it  because  of  special  weakness  in  mj. 
dramatic  works  or  because  I  am  the  author  of  them,  that 
they  are  judged  so  harshly  and  are  attacked  on  every  occa¬ 
sion  ?  I  could  discover  this  only  by  writing  an  anonymous 
work  and  let  that  take  its  course  ;  but  could  I  keep  my  se¬ 
cret?  No,  all  agreed  that  I  could  not,  and  this  opinion 
worked  to  my .  advantage.  During  a  short  visit  at  Nysoe  I 
wrote  “  The  King  Dreams  ;  ”  nobody  except  Collin  knew  that 
I  was  the  author.  I  heard  that  Heiberg,  who  just  at  that  time 
was  using  me  very  sharply  in  the  “Intelligencer,”  interested 
himself  very  much  for  the  anonymous  piece,  and,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken,  he  put  it  on  the  stage.  I  must  however  add  that 
afterward  he  gave  it  a  beautiful  and  generous  critique  in  the 
“  Intelligencer,”  and  that  too  after  he  had  caught  the  notion 
that  it  might  be  written  by  me,  —  which  almost  all  doubted. 

A  new  experiment  procured  for  me  still  greater  pleasure 
and  fun,  because  of  the  situation  I  fell  into  and  the  judgments 
I  heard.  At  the  very  time  I  was  having  so  much  trouble  in 
getting  my  “Fortune’s  Flower”  represented,  I  wrote  and 
sent  in  “  The  New  Lying-in  Room.”  1  The  little  comedy  was 
at  that  time  performed  most  exquisitely.  Madame  Heiberg 
played  with  life  and  humor  the  part  of  Christina  ;  she  gave  an 
air  of  freshness  and  charm  to  it  all,  and  the  piece  met,  as  is 
well  known,  with  great  success.  Collin  was  initiated  into  the 
secret,  as  also  H.  C.  Orsted,  to  whom  I  read  the  piece  at  my 
own  home,  and  he  was  pleased  with  the  praise  that  the  little 
work  received.  Nobody  anticipated  that  it  came  from  me. 
Returning  home  the  evening  after  the  first  representation  of 
the  piece,  one  of  our  young,  clever  critics  came  to  my  rooms  ; 
he  had  been  at  the  theatre,  and  expressed  now  the  great  pleas¬ 
ure  he  had  found  in  the  little  comedy.  I  was  rather  embar¬ 
rassed  and  feared  I  might  betray  myself  by  .vords  or  aspect,  so 
I  said  immediately  to  him  :  “  I  know  its  author  !  ”  —  “  Who  is 
it?  ”  asked  he.  “  It  is  you  !  ”  said  I,  “  you  are  in  such  agitation, 
and  much  of  what  you  say  betrays  you  !  Do  not  see  anybody 

1  There  is  a  comedy  by  Holberg  called  “The  Lying-in  Room,”  founded, 
as  this  also,  on  the  custom  in  Denmark  of  a  woman  receiving  the  congrat* 
ulation  of  her  friends  shortly  after  the  birth  of  a  child,  —  a  custom  which 
has  fallen  into  disuse  from  its  manifest  imprudence.  —  Ed. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE .  23  I 

else  this  evening  and  speak  as  you  have  been  speaking  to  me, 
for  you  will  be  discovered  !  ”  He  blushed  and  was  quite  as¬ 
tonished,  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart  and  assured  me  sol¬ 
emnly  that  he  was  not  the  author.  “  I  know  what  I  know  ! ” 
said  I  laughingly,  and  begged  him  to  excuse  my  leaving  him. 
It  was  not  possible  for  me  to  hold  in  longer,  and  so  I  was 
compelled  to  speak  as  I  did,  and  he  did  not  suspect  any  de¬ 
ceit. 

I  went  one  day  to  the  director  of  the  theatre,  the  Privy  Coun¬ 
selor  Adler,  to  hear  of  my  “  Fortune’s  Flower.” 

“  Well,”  said  he,  “  that  is  a  work  with  considerable  poetry 
in  it,  but  not  of  the  kind  that  we  can  make  use  of.  If  you 
could  only  write  a  piece  like  “The  New  Lying-in  Room!” 
That  is  an  excellent  piece,  but  does  not  lie  within  reach  of 
your  talent ;  you  are  a  lyrist,  and  not  in  possession  of  that 
man’s  humor !  ” 

“  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  am  not!  ”  I  answered,  and  now  I 
also  praised  “The  New  Lying-in  Room.”  For  more  than  a 
year  the  little  piece  was  played  with  great  success,  and  nobody 
knew  its  author’s  name ;  they  guessed  Hostrup,  and  that  was* 
no  damage  to  me ;  afterward  one  or  another  guessed  me,  but 
it  was  not  believed.  I  have  seen  how  those  who  have  named 
me  have  been  set  right,  and  one  of  the  arguments  used  was  : 
“Andersen  could  not  have  kept  still  after  such  a  success  !  ”  — 
“No,  that  would  have  been  impossible,”  said  I,  and  I  made 
a  silent  vow  not  to  reveal  myself  as  its  author,  for  several 
years,  when  it  should  have  no  more  interest  for  the  public, 
and  I  have  kept  my  word.  Only  last  year  I  revealed  it,  by 
inserting  the  piece  among  my  “  Collected  Writings,”  as  also 
the  piece  “  The  King  Dreams.”  Several  characters  in  the 
novel  “  O.  T.,”  as  also  some  in  “  Only  a  Fiddler,”  e.  g.  Peter 
Vieck,  might  have  put  them  on  the  scent  that  I  was  the  author, 
I  had  thought  that  people  might  have  found  some  humor  in 
my  stories,  but  it  was  not  so  ;  it  was  only  found  in  my  “  New 
Lying-in  Room.” 

It  was  this  characteristic  of  my  writing  which  especially 
pleased  H.  C.  Orsted,  who  was  the  first  that  spoke  of  it  and 
hade  me  believe  that  I  really  had  humor.  He  perceived  it  in 
some  of  my  earlier  works,  and  in  several  traits  of  my  char 


-32 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


acter.  When  my  first  collection  of  poems  appeared  in  1830, 
of  which  several  had  been  printed  separately,  I  tried  to  find  a 
motto  for  the  whole  collection,  but  I  could  not  find  anything 
striking,  so  I  made  one  myself. 

“  Forgotten  poems  are  new  !  ”  —  Jean  Paul. 

And  I  had  the  fun  afterward  to  see  other  authors,  men  of 
erudition,  quoting  the  same  motto  of  Jean  Paul  ;  I  know  from 
what  source  they  had  it,  and  Orsted  also. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  suffered  so  very  bitterly  from  a 
too  severe  and  almost  personal  criticism,  that  I  was  often  at 
the  point  of  giving  up,  but  then  there  came  moments  where 
humor,  if  I  dare  call  it  so,  raised  me  from  the  sadness  and 
misery  into  which  I  had  sunk  ;  I  saw  clearly  my  own  weak¬ 
ness  and  wants,  but  also  what  was  foolish  and  absurd  in  the 
insipid  rebukes  and  learned  gabble  of  the  critics. 

Once  in  such  a  moment  I  wrote  a  critique  upon  H.  C.  An¬ 
dersen  as  an  author  ;  it  was  very  sharp,  and  finished  by  recom¬ 
mending  study  and  gratitude  toward  those  who  had  educated 
him.  I  took  the  conceit  with  me  one  day  to  H.  C.  Orsted’s, 
where  a  company  was  gathered  for  dinner.  I  told  them  that  I 
had  brought  with  me  a  copy  of  a  shameless  and  harsh  criticism, 
and  read  it  aloud.  They  could  not  imagine  why  I  should 
copy  such  a  thing,  but  they  also  condemned  it  as  harsh. 

“  It  is  really  so,”  said  Orsted,  “  they  are  severe  against  An¬ 
dersen,  but  yet  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  something  in  it, 
some  arguments  which  are  really  striking  and  give  us  an 
insight’into  you  !  ” 

“Yes,”  I  answered,  “  for  it  is  from  myself!  ”  and  now  there 
was  surprise,  and  laughter  and  joking  ;  most  of  the  company 
wondered  that  I  could  have  been  able  to  write  such  a  thing 
myself. 

“  Pie  is  a  true  humorist !  ”  said  Orsted,  and  that  was  the 
first  time  that  I  discovered  for  myself  that  I  was  in  possession 

of  such  a  gift. 

As  people  grow  older,  however  much  they  may  be  tossed 
about  in  the  world,  some  one  place  must  be  the  true  home  ; 
even  the  bird  of  passage  has  one  fixed  spot  to  which  it  hastens: 
nine  was  and  is  the  house  of  my  friend  Collin.  Treated  as  a 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


*33 


son,  almost  grown  up  with  the  children,  I  have  become  a 
member  of  the  family  ;  a  more  heartfelt  connection,  a  better 
home  have  I  never  known  :  a  link  broke  in  this  chain,  and 
precisely  in  the  hour  of  bereavement,  did  I  feel  how  firmly  I 
have  been  engrafted  here,  so  that  I  was  regarded  as  one  of 
the  children. 

If  I  were  to  give  the  picture  of  the  mistress  of  a  family  who 
wholly  loses  her  own  individual  I  in  her  husband  and  children, 
I  must  name  the  wife  of  Collin  ;  with  the  sympathy  of  a  moth¬ 
er,  she  also  followed  me  in  sorrow  and  in  gladness.  In  the 
latter  years  of  her  life  she  became  very  deaf,  and  beside  this 
she  had  the  misfortune  of  being  nearly  blind.  An  operation 
was  performed  on  her  sight,  which  succeeded  so  well,  that  in 
the  course  of  the  winter  she  was  able  to  read  a  letter,  and  this 
was  a  cause  of  grateful  joy  to  her.  She  longed  in  an  extraor¬ 
dinary  manner  for  the  first  green  of  spring,  and  this  she  saw 
in  her  little  garden. 

I  parted  from  her  one  Sunday  evening  in  health  and  joy ;  in 
the  night  I  was  awoke  ;  a  servant  brought  me  a  letter.  Collin 
wrote,  “  My  wife  is  very  ill  ;  the  children  are  all  assembled 
here  !  ”  I  understood  it,  and  hastened  thither.  She  slept 
quietly  and  without  pain  ;  it  was  the  sleep  of  the  just;  it  was 
death  which  was  approaching  so  kindly  and  calmly.  On  the 
third  day  she  yet  lay  in  that  peaceful  slumber  :  then  her 
countenance  grew  pale  —  and  she  was  dead  ! 

Thou  did’st  but  close  thine  eyes  to  gather  in 

The  large  amount  of  all  thy  spiritual  bliss  ; 

We  saw  thy  slumbers  like  a  little  child’s. 

O  Death!  thou  art  all  brightness  and  not  shadow. 

Never  had  I  imagined  that  the  departure  from  this  world 
could  be  so  painless,  so  blessed.  A  devotion  arose  in  my 
soul  ;  a  conviction  of  God  and  eternity,  which  this  moment 
elevated  to  an  epoch  in  my  life.  It  was  the  first  death-bed  at 
which  1  had  been  present  since  my  childhood.  Children,  and 
children’s  children  were  assembled.  In  such  moments  all  is 
holy  around  us.  Her  soul  was  love  ;  she  went  to  love  and  to 
God! 

At  the  end  of  July  the  monument  of  King  Frederick  VI. 


234 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


was  to  be  uncovered  at  Skanderborg,  in  the  middle  of  Jutland. 
I  had,  by  solicitation,  written  the  cantata  for  the  festival,  to 
which  Hartmann  had  furnished  the  music,  and  this  was  to  be 
sung  by  Danish  students.  I  had  been  invited  to  the  festival, 
which  thus  was  to  form  the  object  of  my  summer  excursion. 

Skanderborg  lies  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  districts  of 
Denmark.  Charming  hills  rise  covered  with  vast  beech  woods, 
and  a  large  inland  lake  of  a  pleasing  form  extends  among 
them.  On  the  outside  of  the  city,  close  by  the  church,  which 
is  built  upon  the  ruins  of  an  old  castle,  now  stands  the 
monument,  a  work  of  Thorwaldsen’s.  The  most  beautiful 
moment  to  me  at  this  festival  was  in  the  evening,  after  the  un¬ 
veiling  of  the  monument  ;  torches  were  lighted  around  it,  and 
threw  their  unsteady  flame  over  the  lake ;  within  the  woods 
blazed  thousands  of  lights,  and  music  for  the  dance  resounded 
from  the  tents.  Round  about  upon  the  hills,  between  the 
woods,  and  high  above  them,  bonfires  were  lighted  at  one  and 
the  same  moment,  which  burned  in  the  night  like  red  stars. 
There  was  spread  over  lake  and  land  a  pure,  a  summer  fra¬ 
grance  which  is  peculiar  to  the  North,  in  its  beautiful  summer 
nights.  The  shadows  of  those  who  passed  between  the 
monument  and  the  church,  glided  gigantically  along  its  red 
walls,  as  if  they  were  spirits  who  were  taking  part  in  the 
festival. 

A  royal  steamship  was  ordered  to  bring  home  the  students, 
and  before  our  departure  the  citizens  of  Aarhuus  got  up  a  ball 
for  us.  We  arrived  in  a  long  procession  of  carriages  at  the 
city,  but  earlier  than  they  had  expected,  and  as  we  were  to 
have  a  very  elegant  reception  we  were  advised  to  wait  a  little. 
So  we  stopped  in  the  hot  sun  a  long  time  out  of  the  city,  all 
for  the  honor  of  it,  and  when  we  entered  the  city  we  were 
drawn  up  in  rows  on  the  market-place  ;  the  good  citizens  each 
took  a  student  to  entertain.  I  stood  among  the  students, 
and  several  citizens,  one  after  another,  came  up  to  me, 
bowed,  asked  my  name,  and  when  I  told  it  them  they  asked, 
•‘Are  you  the  poet  Andersen?”  I  said  “Yes!  ”  They  bowed 
again  and  went  away ;  all  went  away  ;  not  one  of  them  would 
have  the  poet,  or  perhaps  they  wished  me  so  good  a  host,  the 
very  best  one,  that  at  last  I  did  not  get  any  at  a’.l.  1  stood 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


235 


forsaken  and  alone,  like  a  negro  at  a  slave-market  whom 
nobody  will  buy.  I  alone  was  obliged  to  find  a  hotel  in  the 
good  city  of  Aarhuus. 

We  went  homeward  over  the  Kattegat  with  song  and  laugh¬ 
ter.  The  Kullen  lifted  its  black  rocks,  the  Danish  shores 
stood  fresh  and  green  with  their  beech  woods  ;  it  was  a  jour¬ 
ney  for  the  musician  and  the  poet.  I  returned  home  to  liter¬ 
ary  activity.  In  this  year  my  novel  of  “The  Improvisatore  ” 
was  translated  into  English  by  the  well-known  authoress  Mary 
Howitt,  and  was  received  by  her  countrymen  with  great  ap¬ 
plause.  “  O.  T.”  and  “  Only  a  Fiddler  ”  soon  followed,  and 
met  with,  as  it  seemed,  the  same  reception.  After  that  ap¬ 
peared  a  Dutch,  and  lastly  a  Russian  translation  of  “The  Im¬ 
provisatore.”  That  which  I  should  never  have  ventured  to 
dream  of  was  accomplished  ;  my  writings  seem  to  come  forth 
under  a  lucky  star  ;  they  have  flown  over  all  lands.  There  is 
something  elevating,  but  at  the  same  time  something  terrific, 
in  seeing  one’s  thoughts  spread  so  far,  and  among  so  many 
people ;  it  is,  indeed,  almost  a  fearful  thing  to  belong  to  so 
many.  The  noble,  the  good  in  us  becomes  a  blessing ;  but 
the  bad,  one’s  errors,  shoots  forth  also,  and  involuntarily  the 
thought  forces  itself  from  us  :  God  !  let  me  never  write  down 
a  word  of  which  I  shall  not  be  able  to  give  an  account  to  Thee. 
A  peculiar  feeling,  a  mixture  of  joy  and  anxiety,  fills  my  heart 
every  time  my  good  genius  conveys  my  fictions  to  a  foreign 
people. 

Travelling  operates  like  an  invigorating  bath  to  the  mind,  — 
like  a  Medea-draught  which  always  makes  one  young  again. 
I  feel  once  more  an  impulse  for  it  —  not  in  order  to  seek 
material,  as  a  critic  fancied  and  said,  in  speaking  of  my  “  Ba¬ 
zaar  ;  ”  there  exists  a  treasurv  of  material  in  my  own  inner 
self,  and  this  life  is  too  short  to  mature  this  young  existence  ; 
but  there  needs  refreshment  of  spirit  in  order  to  convey  it 
vigorously  and  maturely  to  paper,  and  travelling  is  to  me,  as  I 
have  said,  this  invigorating  bath,  from  which  I  return  as  it 
were  younger  and  stronger. 

By  prudent  economy,  and  the  proceeds  of  my  writings,  I 
was  in  a  condition  to  undertake  several  journeys  during  the 
\ast  year.  That  which  for  me  is  the  most  sun-bright,  is  the  one 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


$ 


in  which  these  pages  were  written.  Esteem,  perhaps  aver 
estimation,  but  especially  kindness,  in  short,  happiness  and 
pleasure,  have  flowed  toward  me  in  abundant  measure. 

I  wished  to  visit  Italy  for  the  third  time,  there  to  spend  a 
summer,  that  I  might  become  acquainted  with  the  South  in  its 
warm  season,  and  probably  return  thence  by  Spain  and  France. 
At  the  end  of  October,  1845,  I  left  Copenhagen.  Formerly 
I  had  thought  when  I  set  out  on  a  journey  :  God  !  what  wilt 
Thou  permit  to  happen  to  me  on  this  journey?  This  time  my 
thoughts  were :  God  !  what  will  happen  to  my  friends  at  home 
during  this  long  time  ?  And  I  felt  a  real  anxiety.  In  one 
year  the  hearse  may  drive  up  to  the  door  many  times,  and 
whose  name  may  be  read  upon  the  coffin  !  The  proverb  says, 
when  one  suddenly  feels  a  cold  shudder  :  “  Now  death  passes 
over  my  grave.”  The  shudder  is  still  colder  when  the  thoughts 
pass  over  the  graves  of  our  best  friends. 

I  spent  a  few  days  at  Count  Moltke’s,  at  Glorup  ;  strolling 
players  were  acting  some  of  my  dramatic  works  at  one  of  the 
nearest  provincial  towns.  I  did  not  see  them  :  country  life 
firmly  withheld  me.  There  is  something  in  the  late  autumn 
poetically  beautiful  ;  when  the  leaf  is  fallen  from  the  tree,  and 
the  sun  shines  still  upon  the  green  grass,  and  the  bird  twitters, 
one  may  often  fancy  that  it  is  a  spring-day  ;  thus  certainly 
also  has  the  old  man  moments  in  his  autumn  in  which  his 
heart  dreams  of  spring. 

I  passed  only  one  day  in  Odense.  I  feel  myself  there 
more  of  a  stranger  than  in  the  great  cities  of  Germany.  As 
a  child  I  was  solitary,  and  had  therefore  no  youthful  friend  ; 
most  of  the  families  whom  I  knew,  have  died  out ;  a  new  gen¬ 
eration  passes  along  the  streets  ;  and  the  streets  even  aie 
altered.  Later  burials  have  concealed  the  miserable  graves 
of  my  parents.  Everything  is  changed.  I  took  one  of  my 
childhood’s  rambles  to  the  Marian-heights,  which  had  belonged 
to  the  Iversen  family  ;  but  this  family  is  dispersed  ;  unknown 
faces  looked  out  from  the  windows.  How  many  youthful 
thoughts  have  been  here  exchanged ! 

One  of  the  young  girls,  Henriette  Hanck,  who  at  that  time 
sat  quietly  there  with  beaming  eyes  and  listened  to  my  first 
poem  when  I  came  here  in  the  summer  time  as  a  scholar 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


237 


from  Slagelse,  sits  now  far  quieter  in  noisy  Copenhagen,  and 
has  thence  sent  out  her  first  writings  into  the  world  ;  the 
romances,  “  Aunt  Anna  ”  and  An  Author’s  Daughter,”  both 
were  published  in  Germany.  Her  German  publisher  thought 
that  some  introductory  words  from  me  might  be  useful  to 
them  ;  and  I,  the  stranger,  but  perhaps  the  too  hospitab.  v  en¬ 
tertained,  have  introduced  the  works  of  this  clever  girl  into 
Germany.  I  visited  her  childhood  home  ;  was  by  the  Odense 
Canal  when  the  first  little  circle  paid  me  homage  and  gave 
me  joy.  But  all  was  strange  there,  I  myself  a  stranger  ;  nei¬ 
ther  was  I  to  see  her  more,  for  when,  the  year  after,  I  came 
home  from  my  travels,  I  received  the  news  of  her  death,  in 
July,  1846.  She  was  an  affectionate  daughter  to  her  parents, 
and  was,  besides  this,  possessed  of  a  deeply  poetical  mind. 
In  her  I  have  lost  a  true  friend  from  the  years  of  childhood, 
one  who  had  felt  an  interest  and  a  sisterly  regard  for  me, 
both  in  my  good  and  my  evil  days. 

The  ducal  family  of  Augustenburg  was  now  at  Castle  Gra- 
vensteen  ;  they  were  informed  of  my  arrival,  and  all  the  favor 
and  the  kindness  which  were  shown  to  me  on  the  former  occa¬ 
sion  at  Augustenburg,  were  here  renewed  in  rich  abundance. 
I  remained  here  fourteen  days,  and  it  was  as  if  these  were  an 
announcement  of  all  the  happiness  which  should  meet  me 
when  I  arrived  in  Germany.  The  country  around  here  is  of 
the  most  picturesque  description  ;  vast  woods,  cultivated  up¬ 
lands  in  perpetual  variety,  with  the  winding  shore  of  the  bay 
and  the  many  quiet  inland  lakes.  Even  the  floating  mists  of 
autumn  lent  to  the  landscape  a  picturesqueness,  a  something 
strange  to  the  islander.  Everything  here  is  on  a  larger  scale 
than  on  the  island.  Beautiful  was  it  without,  glorious  was  it 
within.  I  wrote  here  a  new  little  story,  —  “  The  Girl  with 
the  Matches;”  the  only  thing  which  J.  wrote  upon  this  jour¬ 
ney.  Receiving  the  invitation  to  come  often  to  Gravensteen 
and  Augustenburg,  I  left,  with  a  grateful  heart,  a  place  where 
I  had  spent  such  beautiful  and  such  happy  days. 

Now  no  longer  the  traveller  goes  at  a  snail’s  pace  through 
the  deep  sand  over  the  heath  ;  the  railroad  conveys  him  in  a 
few  hours  to  Altona  and  Hamburg.  The  circle  of  my  friends 
there  is  increased  within  the  last  years.  The  greater  part  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


238 

my  time  I  spent  with  my  oldest  friends,  Count  Hoik,  and  the 
resident  Minister  Bille,  and  with  Zeise,  the  excellent  translator 
of  my  stories.  Otto  Speckter,  who  is  full  of  genius,  surprised 
me  by  his  bold,  glorious  drawings  for  my  stories  ;  he  had 
made  a  whole  collection  of  them,  six  only  of  which  were 
known  to  me.  The  same  natural  freshness  which  shows 
itself  in  every  one  of  his  works,  and  makes  them  all  little 
works  of  art,  exhibits  itself  in  his  whole  character.  He 
appears  to  possess  a  patriarchal  family,  an  affectionate  old 
father,  and  gifted  sisters,  who  love  him  with  their  whole  souls. 
I  wished  one  evening  to  go  to  the  theatre :  it  was  scarcely  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  commencement  of  the  opera : 
Speckter  accompanied  me,  and  on  our  way  we  came  up  to  an 
elegant  house. 

“  We  must  first  go  in  here,  dear  friend,”  said  he  ;  “a  wealthy 
family  lives  here,  friends  of  mine,  and  friends  Qf  your  stories  ; 
the  children  will  be  happy.” 

“  But  the  opera,”  said  I. 

“  Only  for  two  minutes,”  returned  he  ;  and  drew  me  into  the 
house,  mentioned  my  name,  and  the  circle  of  children  collected 
around  me. 

“  And  now  tell  us  a  tale,”  said  he  ;  u  only  one.” 

I  told  one,  and  then  hastened  away  to  the  theatre. 

“That  was  an  extraordinary  visit,”  said  I. 

“  An  excellent  one  ;  one  entirely  out  of  the  common  way  !  ’ 
said  he  exultingly.  “  Only  think  :  the  children  are  full  of 
Andersen  and  his  stories  ;  he  suddenly  makes  his  appearance 
amongst  them,  tells  one  of  them  himself,  and  then  is  gone  ! 
vanished  !  That  is  of  itself  like  a  fairy  tale  to  the  children, 
that  will  remain  vividly  in  their  remembrance.” 

I  myself  was  amused  by  it. 

In  Oldenburg  my  own  little  room,  home-like  and  comfort¬ 
able,  was  awaiting  me.  Hofrath  von  Eisendecher  and  his 
well-informed  lady,  whom,  among  all  my  foreign  friends,  1 
may  consider  as  my  most  sympathizing,  expected  me.  I  had 
promised  to  remain  with  them  a  fortnight,  but  I  stayed  much 
longer.  A  house  where  the  best  and  the  most  intellectual 
people  of  a  city  meet,  is  an  agreeable  place  of  residence,  and 
tuch  a  one  had  I  here.  A  deal  of  social  intercourse  prevailed 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


239 


in  the  little  city ;  and  the  theatre,  in  which  certainly  either 
opera  or  ballet  was  given,  is  one  of  the  most  excellent  in 
Germany.  The  ability  of  Gall,  the  director,  is  sufficiently 
known,  and  unquestionably  the  nomination  of  the  poet  Mosen 
has  a  great  and  good  influence.  I  have  to  thank  him  for 
enabling  me  to  see  one  of  the  classic  pieces  of  Germany, 
“  Nathan  the  Wise,”  the  principal  part  in  which  was  played  by 
Kaiser,  who  is  as  remarkable  for  his  deeply  studied  and  excel¬ 
lent  tragic  acting  as  for  his  readings. 

Mosen,  who  somewhat  resembles  Alexandre  Dumas,  with 
his  half  African  countenance  and  brown,  sparkling  eyes, 
although  he  was  suffering  in  body,  was  full  of  life  and  soul, 
and  we  soon  understood  one  another.  A  trait  of  his  little  son 
affected  me.  He  had  listened  to  me  with  great  devotion,  as  I 
read  one  of  my  stories ;  and  when,  on  the  last  day  I  was  there, 
I  took  leave,  the  mother  said  that  he  must  give  me  his  hand, 
adding  that  probably  a  long  time  must  pass  before  he  would 
see  me  again,  the  boy  burst  into  tears.  In  the  evening,  when 
Mosen  came  into  the  theatre,  he  said  to  me,  “  My  little  Erick 
has  two  tin  soldiers  ;  one  of  them  he  has  given  me  for  you, 
that  you  may  take  him  with  you  on  your  journey.” 

The  tin  soldier  has  faithfully  accompanied  me ;  he  is  a 
Turk  :  probably  some  day  he  may  relate  his  travels. 

Mosen  wrote  in  the  dedication  of  his  “John  of  Austria,5 
the  following  lines  to  me  :  — 

“Once  a  little  bird  flew  over 

From  the  North  Sea’s  dreary  strand  ; 

Singing,  flew  unto  me  over, 

Singing  Marchen  through  the  land. 

Farewell  !  yet  again  bring  hither 
Thy  warm  heart  and  song  together.” 

Here  I  again  met  with  Mayer,  who  has  described  Naples 
and  the  Neapolitans  so  charmingly.  My  little  stories  interested 
him  so  much  that  he  had  written  a  little  treatise  on  them  for 
Germany.  Kapellmeister  Pott  and  my  countryman  Jerndorf? 
belong  to  my  earlier  friends.  I  made  every  day  new  acquaint¬ 
ance,  because  all  houses  were  open  to  me  through  the  famih 
with  whom  I  was  staying  Even  the  Grand  Duke  was  so 
generous  as  to  have  me  invited  t;  a  concert  at  the  palace  the 


2  AO 
% 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


day  after  my  arrival,  and  later  I  had  the  honor  of  being  asked 
to  dinner.  I  received  in  this  foreign  court,  especially,  man) 
unlooked-for  favors.  At  the  Eisendeckers  and  at  the  house 
of  the  parents  of  my  friend  Beaulieu,  —  the  Privy-Councilor 
Beaulieu,  at  Oldenburg,  —  I  heard  several  times  my  little 
stories  read  in  German. 

I  can  read  Danish  very  well,  as  it  ought  to  be  read,  and  I 
can  give  to  it  perfectly  the  expression  which  ought  to  be  given 
in  reading :  there  is  in  the  Danish  language  a  power  which 
cannot  be  transfused  into  a  translation  ;  the  Danish  language 
is  peculiarly  excellent  for  this  species  of  fiction.  The  stories 
have  a  something  strange  to  me  in  German  ;  it  is  difficult  for 
me  in  reading  it  to  put  my  Danish  soul  into  it ;  my  pronunci¬ 
ation  of  the  German  also  is  feeble,  and  with  particular  words 
I  must,  as  it  were,  use  an  effort  to  bring  them  out ;  and  yet 
people  everywhere  in  Germany  have  had  great  interest  in 
hearing  me  read  them  aloud.  I  can  very  well  believe  that  the 
foreign  pronunciation  in  the  reading  of  these  tales  may  be 
easily  permitted,  because  this  foreign  manner  approaches,  in 
this  instance,  to  the  child-like  ;  it  gives  a  natural  coloring  to 
the  reading.  I  saw  everywhere  that  the  most  distinguished 
men  and  women  of  the  most  highly  cultivated  minds  listened 
to  me  with  interest ;  people  entreated  me  to  read,  and  I  did 
so  willingly.  I  read  for  the  first  time  my  stories  in  a  foreign 
tongue,  and  at  a  foreign  court,  before  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Oldenburg  and  a  little  select  circle. 

The  winter  soon  came  on  ;  the  meadows,  which  lay  under 
water,  and  which  formed  large  lakes  around  the  city,  were 
already  covered  with  thick  ice.;  the  skaters  flew  over  it,  and 
I  yet  remained  in  Oldenburg  among  my  hospitable  friends. 
Days  and  evenings  slid  rapidly  away ;  Christmas  approached, 
and  this  season  I  wished  to  spend  in  Berlin.  But  what  are 
distances  in  our  days?  —  the  steam-carriage  goes  from  Han¬ 
over  to  Berlin  in  one  day !  I  must  away  from  the  beloved 
ones,  from  children  and  old  people,  who  were  near,  as  it 
were,  to  my  heart 

I  was  astonished  in  the  highest  degree,  on  taking  leave  of 
the  Grand  Duke,  to  receive  from  him,  as  a  mark  of  his  favoi 
and  as  a  keepsake,  a  valuable  ring.  I  shall  always  preserve 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  //EE.  24 1 

it,  like  every  other  remembrance  of  this  country,  where  I  have 
found  and  where  I  possess  true  friends. 

When  I  was  in  Berlin  on  the  former  occasion,  I  was  invited, 
as  the  author  of  “The  Improvisatore,”  to  the  Italian  Society, 
into  which  only  those  who  have  visited  Italy  can  be  admitted. 
Here  I  saw  Rauch  for  the  first  time,  who,  with  his  white  hair 
and  his  powerful,  manly  figure,  is  not  unlike  Thorwaldsen. 
Nobody  introduced  me  to  him,  and  I  did  not  venture  to 
present  myself,  and  therefore  walked  alone  about  his  studio, 
like  the  other  strangers.  Afterward  I  became  personally  ac¬ 
quainted  with  him  at  the  house  of  the  Prussian  Ambassador 
in  Copenhagen.  I  now  hastened  to  him. 

He  was  in  the  highest  degree  captivated  by  my  little  stories, 
pressed  me  to  his  breast,  and  expressed  the  highest  praise, 
which  was  honestly  meant.  Such  a  momentary  estimation 
or  over-estimation  from  a  man  of  genius  erases  many  a  dark 
shadow  from  the  mind.  I  received  from  Rauch  my  first 
welcome  in  Berlin  :  he  told  me  what  a  large  circle  of  friends 
I  had  in  the  capital  of  Prussia.  I  must  acknowledge  that  it 
was  so.  They  were  of  the  noblest  in  mind  as  well  as  the 
first  in  rank,  in  art,  and  in  science  —  Alexander  von  Hum¬ 
boldt,  Prince  Radziwil,  Savigny,  and  many  others  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

I  had  already,  on  the  former  occasion,  visited  the  brothers 
Grimm,  but  I  had  not  at  that  time  made  much  progress  with 
the  acquaintance.  I  had  not  brought  any  letters  of  introduc¬ 
tion  to  them  with  me,  because  people  had  told  me,  and  I 
myself  believed  it,  that  if  I  were  known  by  anybody  in  Berlin, 
it;  must  be  the  brothers  Grimm.  I  therefore  sought  out  their 
residence.  The  servant-maid  asked  me  with  which  of  the 
brothers  I  wished  to  speak. 

“  With  the  one  who  has  written  the  most,”  said  I,  because 
I  did  not  know,  at  that  time,  which  of  them  had  most  inter* 
ested  himself  in  the  “  Marchen.” 

“  Jacob  is  the  most  learned,”  said  the  maid-servant. 

“  Well,  then,  take  me  to  him.” 

I  entered  the  room,  and  Jacob  Grimm,  with  his  knowing 
and  strongly  marked  countenance,  stood  before  me. 

•'1  come  to  you,”  said  I,  “without  letters  of  introduction, 

16 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


*42 

because  I  hope  that  my  name  is  not  wholly  inknown  to 
you.” 

“  Who  are  you  ?  ”  asked  he. 

I  told  him  ;  and  Jacob  Grimm  said,  in  a  half-embarrassed 
voice,  “  I  do  not  remember  to  have  heard  this  name  :  what 
have  you  written  ?  ” 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  be  embarrassed  in  a  high  degree ; 
but  I  now  mentioned  my  little  stories. 

“I  do  not  know  them,  ”  said  he;  “but  mention  to  me 
some  other  of  your  writings,  because  I  certainly  must  have 
heard  them  spoken  of.” 

I  named  the  titles  of  several ;  but  he  shook  his  head.  I 
felt  myself  quite  unlucky. 

“  But  what  must  you  think  of  me,”  said  I,  “  that  I  come  to 
you  as  a  total  stranger,  and  enumerate  myself  what  I  have 
written  :  You  must  know  me  !  There  has  been  published  in 
Denmark  a  collection  of  the  “  Marchen  ”  of  all  nations,  which 
is  dedicated  to  you,  and  in  it  there  is  at  least  one  story  of 
mine.” 

“  No,”  said  he  good-humoredly,  but  as  much  embarrassed  as 
myself ;  “  I  have  not  read  even  that,  but  it  delights  me  to 
make  your  acquaintance.  Allow  me  to  conduct  you  to  my 
brother  Wilhelm  ?  ” 

“  No,  I  thank  you,”  said  I,  only  wishing  now  to  get  away ; 
I  had  fared  badly  enough  with  one  brother.  I  pressed  his 
hand,  and  hurried  from  the  house. 

That  same  month  Jacob  Grimm  went  to  Copenhagen  ; 
mmediately  on  his  arrival,  and  while  yet  in  his  travelling 
iress,  did  the  amiable,  kind  man  hasten  up  to  me.  He  now 
snew  me,  and  he  came  to  me  with  cordiality.  I  was  just 
then  standing  and  packing  my  clothes  in  a  trunk  for  a  journey 
to  the  country  ;  I  had  only  a  few  minutes’  time  :  by  this 
means  my  reception  of  him  was  just  as  laconic  as  had  been 
his  of  me  in  Berlin. 

Now,  however,  we  met  in  Berlin  as  old  acquaintance.  Jacob 
Grimm  is  one  of  those  characters  whom  one  must  love  and  at* 
tach  one’s  self  to. 

One  evening,  as  I  was  reading  one  of  my  little  stories  at  the 
Countess  Bismark-Bohlen’s,  there  was  in  the  little  circle  one 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


243 


person  in  particular  who  listened  with  evident  fellowship  of 
feeling,  and  who  expressed  himself  in  a  peculiar  and  sensible 
manner  on  the  subject.  This  was  Jacob's  brother,  Wilhelm 
Grimm. 

“I  should  have  known  you  very  well,  if  you  had  come  to 
me,”  said  he,  “  the  last  time  you  were  here.” 

I  saw  these  two  highly  gifted  and  amiable  brothers  almost 
daily.  The  circles  into  which  I  was  invited,  seemed  also  to  be 
theirs  ;  and  it  was  my  desire  and  pleasure  that  they  should  lis¬ 
ten  to  my  little  stories,  that  they  should  participate  in  them, — 
they  whose  names  will  be  always  spoken  as  long  as  the  Ger¬ 
man  “Volks  Marchen  ”  are  read. 

The  fact  of  my  not  being  known  to  Jacob  Grimm  on  my 
first  visit  to  Berlin  had  so  disconcerted  me,  that  when  any  one 
asked  me  whether  I  had  been  well  received  in  this  city,  I 
shook  my  head  doubtfully  and  said,  “  But  Grimm  did  not 
know  me.” 

I  was  told  that  Tieck  was  ill  —  could  see  no  one  ;  I  there¬ 
fore  only  sent  in  my  card.  Some  days  afterward  I  met  at  a 
friend's  house,  where  Rauch’s  birthday  was  being  celebrated, 
Tieck,  the  sculptor,  who  told  me  that  his  brother  had  lately 

waited  two  hours  for  me  at  dinner.  I  went  to  him.  and  dis- 

* 

covered  that  he  had  sent  me  an  invitation,  which,  however, 
had  been  taken  to  a  wrong  inn.  A  fresh  invitation  was  given, 
and  I  passed  some  delightfully  cheerful  hours  with  Raumer, 
the  historian,  and  with  the  widow  and  daughter  of  Steffens. 
There  is  a  music  in  Tieck’s  voice,  a  spirituality  in  his  intelli¬ 
gent  eye^,  which  age  cannot  lessen,  but,  on  the  contrary,  must 
increase.  “  The  Elves,”  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  story 
which  has  been  conceived  in  our  time,  would  alone  be  suffi 
cient,  had  Tieck  written  nothing  else,  to  make  his  name  im¬ 
mortal.  As  the  author  of  “Marchen,”  I  bow  myself  before 
him,  the  elder  and  the  master,  and  who  was  the  first  German 
poet  who  many  years  before  pressed  me  to  his  breast,  as  if  it 
were  to  consecrate  me  to  walk  in  the  same  patn  with  himself. 

The  old  friends  had  all  to  be  visaed  ;  but  the  number  of 
new  ones  grew  with  each  day.  One  invitation  followed  an¬ 
other.  It  required  coirsiderable  physical  power  to  support  so 
much  good-will.  I  retrained  in  Berlin  about  three  weeks,  and 


244 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


the  time  seemed  to  pass  more  rapidly  with  each  succeeding 
day.  I  was,  as  it  were,  overcome  by  kindness.  I,  at  length, 
had  no  other  prospect  for  repose  than  to  seat  myself  in  a  rail¬ 
way  carriage,  and  fly  away  out  of  the  country. 

And  yet  amid  these  social  festivities,  with  all  the  amiable 
zeal  and  interest  that  then  was  felt  for  me,  I  had  one  disen¬ 
gaged  evening,  —  one  evening  on  which  I  suddenly  felt  solitude 
in  its  most  oppressive  form,  —  Christmas  Eve,  that  very  evening 
of  all  others  on  which  I*  would  most  willingly  witness  some¬ 
thing  festal,  willingly  stand  beside  a  Christmas-tree,  gladden¬ 
ing  myself  with  the  joy  of  children,  and  seeing  the  parents 
joyfully  become  children  again.  Every  one  of  the  many  fam¬ 
ilies  in  which  I  in  truth  felt  that  I  was  received  as  a  relation, 
had  fancied,  as  I  afterward  discovered,  that  I  must  be  invited 
out ;  but  I  sat  quite  alone  in  my  room  at  the  inn,  and  thought 
on  home.  I  seated  myself  at  the  open  window,  and  gazed  up 
to  the  starry  heavens,  which  was  the  Christmas-tree  that  was 
lighted  for  me. 

“ Father  in  heaven!”  I  prayed,  as  the  children  do,  “what 
dost  Thou  give  to  me  ?  ” 

When  the  friends  heard  of  my  solitary  Christmas  night, 
there  were  on  the  following  evening  many  Christmas-trees 
lighted  ;  and  on  the  last  evening  in  the  year  there  was  planted 
for  me  alone  a  little  tree  with  its  lights  and  its  beautiful  pres¬ 
ents —  and  that  was  by  Jenny  Lind.  The  whole  company 
consisted  of  herself,  her  attendant,  and  me  ;  we  three  children 
from  the  North  were  together  on  Sylvester  Eve,  and  I  was  the 
child  for  whom  the  Christmas-tree  was  lighted.  She  rejoiced 
with  the  feeling  of  a  sister  in  my  good  fortune  in  Berlin  ;  and 
I  felt  almost  pride  in  the  sympathy  of  such  a  pure,  noble,  and 
womanly  being.  Everywhere  her  praise  resounded,  not  rfierely 
as  a  singer,  but  also  as  a  woman  ;  the  two  combined  awoke  a 
real  enthusiasm  for  her. 

It  does  one  good,  both  in  mind  and  heart,  to  see  that  which 
is  glorious  understood  and  beloved.  In  one  little  anecdote 
contributing  to  her  triumph  I  was  myself  made  the  confidant. 

One  morning  as  I  looked  out  of  my  window  “  (Inter  den 
Linden ,”  I  saw  a  man  under  one  of  the  trees,  half  hidden,  and 
•habbily  dressed,  who  took  a  comb  out  of  his  pocket,  smoothed 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


245 


his  hair,  set  his  neckerchief  straight,  and  brushed  his  coat 
with  his  hand  ;  I  understood  that  bashful  poverty  which  feels 
depressed  by  its  shabby  dress.  A  moment  after  this,  there 
was  a  knock  at  my  door,  and  this  same  man  entered.  It  was 

W - ,  the  poet  of  nature,  who  is  only  a  poor  tailor,  but  who 

has  a  truly  poetical  mind.  Rellstab  and  others  in  Berlin  have 
mentioned  him  with  honor  ;  there  is  something  healthy  in  his 
poems,  among  which  several  of  a  sincerely  religious  character 
may  be  found.  He  had  heard  that  I  was  in  Berlin,  and  wished 
now  to  visit  me.  We  sat  together  on  the  sofa  and  conversed  : 
there  was  such  an  amiable  contentedness,  such  an  unspoiled 
and  good  tone  of  mind,  about  him,  that  I  was  sorry  not  to  be 
rich  in  order  that  I  might  do  something  for  him.  I  was 
ashamed  of  offering  him  the  little  that  I  could  give  ;  in  any 
case  I  wished  to  put  it  in  as  agreeable  a  form  as  I  could.  I 
asked  him  whether  I  might  invite  him  to  hear  Jenny  Lind. 

“  I  have  already  heard  her,”  said  he  smiling;  I  had,  it  is 
true,  no  money  to  buy  a  ticket ;  but  I  went  to  the  leader  of 
the  supernumeraries,  and  asked  whether  I  might  not  act  as  a 
supernumerary  for  one  evening  in  ‘  Norma.’  I  was  accepted, 
and  habited  as  a  Roman  soldier,  with  a  long  sword  by  my  side, 
and  thus  got  to  the  theatre,  where  I  could  hear  her  better  than 
anybody  else,  for  I  stood  close  to  her.  Ah,  how  she  sung, 
how  she  played  !  I  could  not  help  crying  ;  but  they  were 
angry  at  that the  leader  forbade,  and  would  not  let  me  again 
make  my  appearance,  because  no  one  must  weep  on  the 
stage.” 

Jenny  Lind  introduced  me  to  Madame  Birch- Pfeiffer.  “She 
taught  mo  German,”  said  she  ;  “  she  is  as  good  as  a  mother 
to  me  !  You  must  make  her  acquaintance !  ”  I  was  very 
glad  to  do  so.  We  went  through  the  street  in  a  drosky.  The 
world-renowned  Jenny  Lind  in  a  drosky  !  somebody  will 
pei  haps  say,  as  it  was  said  in  Copenhagen,  when  she  was  seen 
once  riding  in  such  a  carriage  with  an  older  lady  friend  :  “It 
is  not  respectable  for  Jenny  Lind  to  ride  in  a  drosky ;  things 
must  be  in  keeping  !  ”  What  strange  notions  some  people 
have  of  what  is  proper  !  Thorwaldsen  once  said  at  Nysoe, 
when  I  was  going  to  the  city  by  the  omnibus,  “  I’ll  go  with 
you  !  ”  and  the  people  exclaimed  :  “  Thorwaldsen  in  an  omni' 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


246 

bus  !  that  is  not  seemly  !  ”  —  “  But  Andersen  is  also  going  with 
me  !  ”  said  he,  innocently.  “  That  is  quite  another  thing,”  said 
I  to  him.  Thorwaldsen  in  an  omnibus  would  be  scandalous, 
and  so  it  was  with  Jenny  Lind  in  a  drosky.  She  rode,  how¬ 
ever,  in  Berlin  within  such  a  one,  which  we  engaged  in  the 
street,  and  so  we  reached  Madame  Birch-Pfeiffer. 

I  had  heard  of  the  ability  of  this  artist  as  an  actress  ;  I  knew 
her  talent  a  la  Scribe  for  presenting  in  dramatic  form  what  has 
had  a  home  in  romance,  and  I  knew  with  what  harshness 
criticism  had  almost  always  treated  the  highly  gifted  lady. 
At  first  sight  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  this  had  given  her  a  little 
smile  of  bitterness  ;  I  perceived  it  in  her  salutation  :  “  I  have 
not  yet  read  your  books,  but  I  know  that  you  are  criticised 
very  favorably:  that  I  cannot  say  of  myself!” 

“  He  is  like  a  good  brother  to  me  !  ”  said  Jenny  Lind,  and 
laid  my  hand  in  hers.  Madame  Birch-Pfeiffer  bid  me  a  kind 
welcome ;  she  was  all  life  and  humor.  The  next  time  I  called 
on  her  she  was  reading  my  “  Improvisatore,”  and  I  felt  that  I 
had  one  more  friend  among  women. 

With  the  exception  of  the  theatre,  I  had  very  little  time  to 
visit  collections  of  any  kind  or  institutions  of  art.  The  able 
and  amiable  Offers,  however,  the  Director  of  the  Museum, 
enabled  me  to  pay  a  rapid  but  extremely  interesting  visit  to 
that  institution.  Offers  himself  was  my  conductor  ;  we  delayed 
our  steps  only  for  the  most  interesting  objects,  and  there  are 
here  not  a  few  of  these  ;  his  remarks  threw  light  into  my  mind, 
—  for  this  therefore  I  am  infinitely  obliged  to  him. 

I  had  the  happiness  of  visiting  the  Princess  of  Prussia 
many  times  ;  the  wing  of  the  castle  in  which  she  resided  was 
so  comfortable,  and  yet  like  a  fairy  palace.  The  blooming 
winter-garden,  where  the  fountain  splashed  among  the  moss  at 
the  foot  of  the  statue,  was  close  beside  the  room  in  which  the 
kind-hearted  children  smiled  with  their  soft  blue  eyes.  One 
forenoon  I  read  to  her  several  of  my  little  stories,  and  her 
noble  husband  listened  kindly  ;  Prince  Puckler-Muskau  also 
was  present.  On  taking  leave  she  honored  me  with  a  richly 
bound  album,  in  which,  beneath  the  picture  of  the  palace,  she 
wrote  her  name.  I  shall  guard  this  volume  as  a  treasure  of 
the  soul ;  it  is  not  the  gift  which  has  a  value  only,  but  also  the 
manner  in  which  it  is  given. 

o 


TIE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


247 


A  few  days  after  my  arrival  in  Berlin,  I  had  the  honor  to  be 
in  /ited  to  the  royal  table.  As  I  was  better  acquainted  with 
Humboldt  than  any  one  there,  and  as  it  was  he  who  had  par¬ 
ticularly  interested  himself  about  me,  I  took  my  place  at  hia 
side.  Not  only  on  account  of  his  high  intellectual  character, 
and  his  amiable  and  polite  behavior,  but  also  from  his  infinite 
kindness  toward  me,  during  the  whole  of  my  residence  in 
Berlin,  is  he  become  unchangeably  dear  to  me. 

The  King  received  me  most  graciously,  and  said  that  during 
his  stay  in  Copenhagen  he  had  inquired  after  me,  and  had 
heard  that  I  was  travelling.  He  expressed  a  great  interest  in 
my  novel  of  “  Only  a  Fiddler  ;  ”  her  Majesty  the  Queen  also 
showed  herself  graciously  and  kindly  disposed  toward  me.  I 
had  afterward  the  happiness  of  being  invited  to  spend  an 
evening  at  the  palace  at  Potsdam  ;  an  evening  which  is  full 
of  rich  remembrance  and  never  to  be  forgotten  !  Besides  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  waiting,  Humboldt  and  myself  were 
only  invited.  A  seat  was  assigned  to  me  at  tne  table  of  their 
Majesties,  exactly  the  place,  said  the  Queen,  where  Oehlen- 
schlager  had  sat  and  read  his  tragedy  of  “  Dina.”  I  read  four 
little  stories,  “The  Fir-Tree,”  “  The  Ugly  Duckling,”  “The 
Top  and  the  Ball,”  and  “  The  Swineherd.”  The  King  listened 
with  great  interest,  and  expressed  himself  most  wittily  on  the 
subject.  He  said  how  beautiful  he  thought  the  natural  scenery 
of  Denmark,  and  how  excellently  he  had  seen  one  of  Hol- 
berg’s  comedies  performed. 

It  was  deliciously  pleasant  in  the  royal  apartment,  —  gen 
tie  eyes  were  gazing  at  me,  and  I  felt  that  they  all  wished 
me  well.  When  at  night  I  was  alone  in  my  chamber,  my 
thoughts  were  so  occupied  with  this  evening,  and  my  mind  in 
such  a  state  of  excitement,  that  I  could  not  sleep.  Everything 
seemed  to  me  like  a  fairy  tale.  Through  the  whole  night  the 
chimes  sounded  in  the  tower,  and  the  aerial  music  mingled  it¬ 
self  with  my  thoughts. 

I  received  still  one  proof  more  of  the  favor  and  kindness 
of  the  King  of  Prussia  toward  me,  on  the  evening  before  my 
departure  from  the  city.  The  order  of  the  Red  Eagle,  of  the 
♦hird  class,  was  conferred  upon  me.  Such  a  mark  of  honor 
delights  certainly  every  one  who  receives  it.  I  confess  can 


248 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


didly  that  I  felt  myself  honored  in  a  high  degree.  I  discerned 
in  it  an  evident  token  of  the  kindness  of  the  noble,  enlight¬ 
ened  King  toward  me  :  my  heart  was  filled  with  gratitude.  I 
received  this  mark  of  honor  exactly  on  the  birthday  of  my 
benefactor  Collin,  the  6th  of  January  ;  this  day  has  now  a 
twofold  festal  significance  for  me,  May  God  fill  with  glad¬ 
ness  the  mind  of  the  royal  donor  who  wished  to  give  me 
pleasure  ! 

The  last  evening  was  spent  in  a  warm-hearted  circle,  for 
the  greater  part,  of  young  people.  My  health  was  drunk  ;  a 
poem,  “  Der  Marchenkonig,”  declaimed.  It  was  not  until  late 
in  the  night  that  I  reached  home,  that  I  might  set  off  early  in 
the  morning  by  railroad.  In  Weimar  I  was  again  to  meet 
Jenny  Lind.  * 

I  have  here  given  in  part  a  nroof  of  the  favor  and  kindness 
which  was  shown  to  me  in  Berlin :  I  feel  like  some  one  who 
has  received  a  considerable  sum  for  a  certain  object  from  a 
large  assembly,  and  now  would  give  an  account  thereof.  I 
might  still  add  many  other  names,  as  well  from  the  learned 
world,  as  Theodor  Miigge,  Geibel,  Haring,  etc.,  as  from 
the  social  circle  ;  the  reckoning  is  too  large.  God  give  me 
strength  for  that  which  I  now  have  to  perform,  after  I  have, 
as  an  earnest  of  good-will,  received  such  a  richly  abundant 
sum. 

After  a  journey  of  a  day  and  night  I  was  once  more  in 
Weimar,  with  the  noble  hereditary  Grand  Duke.  What  a 
cordial  reception !  A  heart  rich  in  goodness,  and  a  mind 
full  of  noble  endeavors,  live  in  this  young  prince.  I  have  no 
words  for  the  infinite  favor  which,  during  mv  residence  here, 
I  received  daily  from  the  family  of  the  Grand  Duke,  but  my 
whole  heart  is  full  of  devotion.  At  the  court  festival,  as  well 
as  in  the  familiar  family  circle,  I  had  many  evidences  of  the 
esteem  in  which  I  was  held.  Beaulieu  cared  for  me  with  the 
tenderness  of  a  brother.  It  was  to  me  a  month  long  Sabbath 
festival.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  quiet  evenings  spent  with 
him,  when  friend  spoke  freely  to  friend. 

My  old  friends  were  also  unchanged  ;  the  wise  and  able 
Scholl,  as  well  as  Schober,  joined  them  also.  The  intellect¬ 
ual,  venerable  Madame  von  Schwindler,  an  intimate  friend 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


249 


of  Jean  Paul  in  his  younger  days,  received  me  with  sympathy 
and  maternal  kindness  ;  she  told  me  that  I  put  her  in  mind 
of  that  great  poet !  '  She  told  me  much  of  him  that  I  had 
not  heard  before. 

Jean  Paul  or  Frederick  Richter,  which  was  his  true  name^ 
was  so  poor  when  he  was  young  that  in  order  to  get  money  to 
buy  paper  to  write  his  first  work,  he  was  obliged  to  write 
copies  of  The  Village  Gazette  ”  for  the  peasants  in  the 
village  where  he  lived.  She  told  me  that  the  poet  Gleim  was 
the  first  who  noticed  him,  and  wrote  to  her  about  the  gifted 
young  man,  whom  he  had  invited  to  his  house,  and  to  whom 
he  had  sent  five  hundred  thalers.  Madame  von  Schwindler 
had  lived  here  at  Weimar  in  the  days  of  its  glory  ;  she  had 
been  a  visitor  at  the  court  in  the  evening  along  with  Wieland, 
Herder,  and  Musaeus  ;  of  them  and  of  Goethe  and  Schiller 
she  had  much  to  relate.  She  presented  me  with  one  of  Jean 
Paul’s  letters  to  her. 

Jenny  Lind  came  to  Weimar  ;  I  heard  her  at  the  court 
concerts  and  at  the  theatre  ;  I  visited  with  her  the  places 
which  are  become  sacred  through  Goethe  and  Schiller :  we 
stood  together  beside  their  coffins,  where  Chancellor  von 
Muller  led  us.  The  Austrian  poet,  Rollet,  who  met  us  here 
for  the  first  time,  wrote  on  this  subject  a  sweet  poem,  which 
will  serve  me  as  a  visible  remembrance  of  this  hour  and  this 
place.  People  lay  lovely  flowers  in  their  books,  and  as  such, 
I  lay  in  here  this  verse  of  his  :  — 

“  Weimar,  29 th  January ,  1846. 

“  Marchen  rose,  which  hast  so  often 

Charmed  me  with  thy  fragrant  breath  ; 

Where  the  prince,  the  poets  slumber, 

Thou  hast  wreathed  the  hall  of  death. 

“And  with  thee  beside  each  coffin, 

In  the  death-hushed  chamber  pale, 

I  beheld  a  grief-enchanted, 

Sweetly  dreaming  nightingale. 

u  I  rejoiced  amid  the  stillness  ; 

Gladness  through  nr*  bosom  past 
That  the  gloomy  poets’  coffins 
Such  a  magic  crowned  at  last. 


250 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


“  And  thy  rose’s  summer  fi  agrance 
Floated  round  that  chamber  pale, 

With  the  gentle  melancholy 
Of  the  grief-hushed  nightingale.” 

It  was  in  the  evening  circle  of  the  intellectual  Froriep  that 
I  met,  for  the  first  time,  with  Auerbach,  who  then  chanced 
to  be  staying  in  Weimar.  His  “  Village  Tales  ”  interested 
me  in  the  highest  degree  ;  I  regard  them  as  the  most  poetical, 
most  healthy,  and  joyous  production  of  the  young  German 
literature.  He  himself  made  the  same  agreeable  impression 
upon  me  ;  there  is  something  so  frank  and  straightforward, 
and  yet  so  sagacious,  in  his  whole  appearance,  I  might  almost 
say  that  he  looks  himself  like  a  village  tale,  healthy  to  the 
core,  body  and  soul,  and  his  eyes  beaming  with  honesty.  We 
soon  became  friends  — •  and  I  hope  forever. 

My  stay  in  Weimar  was  prolonged  ;  it  became  ever  more 
difficult  to  tear  myself  away.  The  Grand  Duke’s  birthday 
occurred  at  this  time,  and  after  attending  all  the  festivities  tc 
which  I  was  invited,  I  departed.  I  would  and  must  be  in 
Rome  at  Easter.  Once  more  in  the  early  morning,  I  saw  the 
hereditary  Grand  Duke,  and,  with  a  heart  full  of  emotion, 
bade  him  farewell.  Never,  in  presence  of  the  world,  will  I 
forget  the  high  position  which  his  birth  gives  him,  but  I  may 
say,  as  the  very  poorest  subject  may  say  of  a  prince,  I  love 
him  as  one  who  is  dearest  to  my  heart.  God  give  him  joy 
and  bless  him  in  his  noble  endeavors  !  A  generous  heart 
beats  beneath  the  princely  star. 

Beaulieu  accompanied  me  to  Jena.  Here  a  hospitable 
home  awaited  me,  filled  with  beautiful  memories  from  the  time 
of  Goethe,  —  the  house  of  the  publisher  Frommann.  His 
kind,  warm-hearted  sister  had  shown  me  much  sympathy  in 
Berlin  ;  the  brother  was  not  here  less  kind. 

The  Holsteiner  Michelsen,  who  has  a  professorship  at  Jena, 
assembled  a  number  of  friends  one  evening,  and  in  a  graceful 
and  cordial  toast  in  my  honor,  expressed  his  sense  of  the  im« 
portance  of  Danish  literature,  and  the  healthy  and  natural 
spirit  which  flourished  in  it. 

In  Michelsen’s  house  I  also  became  acquainted  with  Pro¬ 
fessor  Hase,  who,  one  evening  having  heard  some  of  my  little 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


25* 


stories,  seemed  filled  with  great  kindness  towaid  me.  What 
he  wrote  in  this  moment  of  interest  on  an  album  leaf  expresses 
this  sentiment :  — 

“  Schelling  —  not  he  who  now  lives  in  Berlin,  but  he  who 
lives  an  immortal  hero  in  the  world  of  mind  —  once  said  : 
‘  Nature  is  the  visible  spirit.’  This  spirit,  this  unseen  natuie, 
last  evening  was  again  rendered  visible  to  me  through  your 
little  tales.  If  on  the  one  hand  you  penetrate  deeply  into  the 
mysteries  of  nature  ;  know  and  understand  the  language  of 
birds,  and  what  are  the  feelings  of  a  fir-tree  or  a  daisy,  so  that 
each  seems  to  be  there  on  its  own  account,  and  we  and  our 
children  sympathize  with  them  in  their  joys  and  sorrows  ;  yet. 
on  the  other  hand,  all  is  but  the  image  of  mind ;  and  the 
human  heart,  in  its  infinity,  trembles  and  throbs  throughout. 
May  this  fountain  in  the  poet’s  heart,  which  God  has  lent  you, 
still  for  a  time  pour  forth  this  refreshingly,  and  may  these 
stories  in  the  memories  of  the  Germanic  nations  become  the 
legends  of  the  people !  ”  That'  object,  for  which  as  a  writer 
of  poetical  fictions,  I  must  strive  after,  is  contained  in  these 
last  lines. 

It  is  also  to  Hase  and  the  gifted  improvisatore,  Professor 
Wolff  of  Jena,  to  whom  I  am  most  indebted  for  the  appearance 
of  a  uniform  German  edition  of  my  writings. 

This  was  all  arranged  on  my  arrival  at  Leipsic :  several 
hours  of  business  were  added  to  my  traveller’s  mode  of  life. 
The  city  of  book- selling  presented  me  with  her  bouquet,  a 
sum  of  money  ;  but  she  presented  me  with  even  more.  I  met 
again  with  Brockhaus,  and  passed  happy  hours  with  Mendels¬ 
sohn,  that  glorious  man  of  genius.  I  heard  him  play  again 
and  again  ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  his  eyes,  full  of  soul,  looked 
into  the  very  depths  of  my  being.  Few  men  'have  more  the 
stamp  of  the  inward  fire  than  he.  A  gentle,  friendly  wife,  and 
beautiful  children,  make  his  rich,  well-appointed  house,  blessed 
and  pleasant.  When  he  rallied  me  about  the  stork,  and  its 
frequent  appearance  in  my  writings,  there  was  something  so 
childlike  and  amiable  revealed  in  this  great  artist! 

I  also  met  again  my  excellent  countryman  Gade,  whose  com¬ 
positions  have  been  so  well  received  in  Germany.  I  brought 
him  the  text  for  a  new  opera  which  I  had  written,  and  which 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


252 

I  hope  to  see  brought  out  on  the  German  stage.  Gade  had 
written  the  music  to  my  drama  of  “  Agnete  and  the  Merman,’' 
compositions  which  were  very  successful.  Auerbach,  whom  1 
again  .found  here,  introduced  me  to  many  agreeable  circles. 
I  met  with  the  composer  Kalliwoda,  and  with  Kiihne,  whose 
charming  little  son  immediately  won  my  heart. 

On  my  arrival  at  Dresden  I  instantly  hastened  to  my  moth¬ 
erly  friend,  the  Baroness  von  Decken.  That  was  a  joyous, 
hearty  welcome  !  One  equally  cordial  I  met  with  from  Dahl. 
I  saw  once  more  my  Roman  friend,  the  poet  with  word  and 
color,  Reineck,  and  met  the  kind-hearted  Bendemann.  Pro¬ 
fessor  Grahl  painted  me.  I  missed,  however,  one  among  my 
olden  friends,  the  poet  Brunnow.  With  life  and  cordiality  he 
received  me  the  last  time  in  his  room,  where  stood  lovely 
flowers  ;  now  these  grew  over  his  grave.  It  awakens  a  pecul¬ 
iar  feeling,  thus  for  once  to  meet  on  the  journey  of  life,  to 
understand  and  love  each  other,  and  then  to  part  —  until  the 
journey  for  both  is  ended. 

I  spent,  to  me  a  highly  interesting  evening,  with  the  royal 
family,  who  received  me  with  extraordinary  favor.  Here  also 
the  most  happy  domestic  life  appeared  to  reign  —  a  number 
of  amiable  children,  all  belonging  to  Prince  Johann,  were 
present.  The  least  of  the  Princesses,  a  little  girl,  who  knew 
that  I  had  written  the  history  of  the  “  Fir-tree,”  began  very 
confidentially  with,  —  “Last  Christmas  we  also  had  a  Fir- 
tree,  and  it  stood  here  in  this  room  !  ”  Afterward,  when  she 
was  led  out  before  the  other  children,  and  had  bade  her 
parents  and  the  King  and  Queen  good-night,  she  turned 
round  at  the  half  closed  door,  and  nodding  to  me  in  a  friendly 
and  familiar  manner,  said  I  was  her  Fairy-tale  Prince. 

My  story  of  “  Holger  Danske  ”  led  the  conversation  to  the 
rich  stores  of  legends  which  the  North  possesses.  I  related 
several,  and  explained  the  peculiar  spirit  of  the  fine  scenery  of 
Denmark.  Neither  in  this  royal  palace  did  I  feel  the  weight 
of  ceremony ;  soft,  gentle  eyes  shone  upon  me.  My  last 
morning  in  Dresden  was  spent  with  the  Minister  von  Kon- 
neritz,  where  I  equally  met  with  the  most  friendly  reception. 

The  sun  shone  warm:  it  was  Spring  who  was  celebrating 
her  arrival,  as  I  rolled  out  of  the  dear  city.  Thought  as* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  L.FE. 


253 


sembled  in  one  company  all  the  many  who  had  rendered  my 
visits  so  rich  and  happy  :  it  was  spring  around  me.  and  spring 
in  mv  heart. 

J 

In  Prague  I ‘had  no  acquaintance.  But  a  letter  from  Dr. 
Carus  in  Dresden  opened  to  me  the  hospitable  house  of  Count 
Thun.  The  Archduke  Stephan  received  me  also  in  the  most 
gracious  manner  ;  I  found  in  him  a  young  man  full  of  intellect 
and  heart.  I  visited  Hradschin  and  Wallenstein’s  palace,  but 
these  splendid  places  had  all  been  supplanted  by  —  the  Jews* 
quarter  !  It  was  horrid  ;  it  swarmed  with  women,  old  men, 
and  children,  laughing,  crying,  chaffering,  and  at  every  step 
the  street  became  narrower ;  the  ancient  synagogue,  in  imitation 
of  the  Temple  of  Jerusalem,  is  placed  as  if  squeezed  between 
the  houses.  In  the  lapse  of  time  a  layer  of  earth  had  gathered 
on  its  wall.  I  was  obliged  to  step  down  before  I  could  enter, 
and  here  were  ceiling,  windows,  and  walls  all  begrimed  with 
smoke ;  an  odious  smell  of  onion  and  other  bad  vapors 
reached  me,  so  that  I  was  compelled  to  go  out  into  the  open 
place,  the  burying-ground.  Tombstones  with  Hebrew  in¬ 
scriptions  were  standing  and  lying  in  confusion  under  a  grove 
of  elder-trees,  —  stunted,  unhealthy  looking,  almost  sapless. 
Cobwebs  were  hanging  like  rays  of  mourning-crape  among 
the  dead,  black  graves.  Besides  it  was  a  very  interesting 
point  of  time  when  I  left  Prague.  The  military,  who  had  been 
stationed  there  a  number  of  years,  were  hastening  to  the  rail  - 
wav,  to  leave  for  Poland,  where  disturbances  had  broken  out. 
The  whole  city  seemed  in  movement  to  take  leave  of  its 
military  friends  ;  it  was  difficult  to  get  through  the  streets 
which  led  to  the  railway.  Many  thousand  soldiers  were  to  be 
accommodated  ;  at  length  the  train  was  set  in  motion.  All 
around  the  whole  hill-side  was  covered  with  people  ;  it  looked 
like  the  richest  Turkey  carpet  woven  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  all  pressed  together,  head  to  head,  and  waving  hats 
and  handkerchiefs.  Such  a  mass  of  human  beings  I  never 
saw  before,  or  at  least,  never  at  one  moment  surveyed  them : 
such  a  spectacle  could  not  be  painted. 

We  travelled  the  whole  night  through  wide  Bohemia :  at 
*very  town  stood  groups  of  people  ;  it  was  as  though  all  the 
inhabitants  had  assembled  themselves.  Their  brown  faces. 


254 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


their  ragged  clothes,  the  light  of  their  torches,  their,  to  me, 
unintelligible  language,  gave  to  the  whole  a  stamp  of  singular¬ 
ity.  We  flew  through  tunnel  and  over  viaduct ;  the  windows 
rattled,  the  signal  whistle  sou.nded,  the  steam  horses  snorted  ; 
I  laid  back  my  head  at  last  in  the  carriage,  and  fell  asleep 
under  the  protection  of  the  god  Morpheus. 

At  Olmiitz,  where  we  had  fresh  carriages,  a  voice  spoke  my 
name  —  it  was  Walter  Goethe!  We  had  travelled  together 
the  whole  night  without  knowing  it.  In  Vienna  we  met  often. 
Noble  powers,  true  genuis,  live  in  Goethe’s  grandsons,  in  the 
composer  as  well  as  in  the  poet ;  but  it  is  as  if  the  greatness 
of  their  grandfather  pressed  upon  them.  Liszt  was  in  Vienna, 
and  invited  me  to  his  concert,  in  which  otherwise  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  find  a  place.  I  again  heard  his  im¬ 
provising  of  Robert.  I  again  heard  him,  like  a  spirit  of  the 
storm,  play  with  the  chords  :  he  is  an  enchanter  of  sounds  who 
fills  the  imagination  with  astonishment.  Ernst  also  was  here  ; 
when  I  visited  him  he  seized  the  violin,  and  this  sang  in  tears 
the  secret  of  a  human  heart. 

I  saw  the  amiable  Grillparzer  again,  and  was  frequently 
with  the  kindly  Castelli,  who  just  at  this  time  had  been  made 
by  the  King  of  Denmark  Knight  of  the  Dannebrog  Order. 
He  was  full  of  joy  at  this,  and  begged  me  to  tell  my  country¬ 
men  that  every  Dane  should  receive  a  hearty  welcome  from 
him.  Some  future  summer  he  invited  me  to  visit  his  grand 
country-seat.  There  is  something  in  Castelli  so  open  and 
honorable,  mingled  with  such  good-natured  humor,  that  one 
must  like  him  :  he  appears  to  me  the  picture  of  a  thorough 
Viennese.  Under  his  portrait,  which  he  gave  me,  he  wrote 
the  following  little  improvised  verse  in  the  style  so  peculiarly 
his  own  :  — 

“This  portrait  shall  ever  with  loving  eyes  greet  thee, 

From  far  shall  recall  the  smile  of  thy  friend  ; 

For  thou,  dearest  Dane,  ’tis  a  pleasure  to  meet  thee. 

Thou  art  one  to  be  loved  and  esteemed  to  the  end.” 

Castelli  introduced  me  to  Seidl  and  Bauernfeld.  At  the 
Danish  ambassador’s,  Baron  von  Lowenstern,  I  met  Zedlitz. 
Most  of  the  shining  stars  of  Austrian  literature  I  saw  glide 
past  me,  as  people  on  a  railway  see  church  towers  ;  you  can 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


255 

■till  say  you  have  seen  them  ;  and  still  retaining  the  simile  of 
the  stars,  I  can  say,  that  in  the  Concordia  Society  I  saw  the 
entire  galaxy.  Here  was  a  host  of  young,  growing  intellects, 
and  here  were  men  of  importance.  At  the  house  of  Counf 
Szechenyi,  who  hospitably  invited  me,  I  saw  his  brother  frorr 
Pesth,  whose  noble  activity  in  Hungary  is  known.  This  short 
meeting  I  account  one  of  the  most  interesting  events  of  my 
stay  in  Vienna  ;  the  man  revealed  himself  in  all  his  individu¬ 
ality,  and  his  eye  said  that  you  must  feel  confidence  in  him. 

At  my  departure  from  Dresden  her  Majesty  the  Queen  of 
Saxony  had  asked  me  whether  I  had  introductions  to  any  one 
at  the  court  of  Vienna,  and  when  I  told  her  that  I  had  not. 
the  Queen  was  so  gracious  as  to  write  a  letter  to  her  sister, 
the  Archduchess  Sophia  of  Austria.  Her  imperial  Highness 
summoned  me  one  evening,  and  received  me  in  the  most 
gracious  manner.  The  dowager  Empress,  the  widow  of  the 
Emperor  Francis  I.,  was  present,  and  full  of  kindness  and 
friendship  toward  me  ;  also  Prince  Wasa,  and  the  hereditary 
Archduchess  of  Hesse-Darmstadt.  The  remembrance  of  this 
evening  will  always  remain  dear  and  interesting  to  me.  I 
read  several  of  my  little  stories  aloud.  When  I  wrote  them, 
I  little  thought  that  I  should  some  day  read  them  aloud  in  the 
imperial  palace. 

Before  my  departure  I  had  still  another  visit  to  make,  and 
this  was  to  the  intellectual  authoress,  Frau  von  Weissenthurn. 
She  had  just  left  a  bed  of  sickness  and  was  still  suffering, 
but  wished  to  see  me.  As  though  she  were  already  standing 
on  the  threshold  of  the  realm  of  shades,  she  pressed  my  hand 
and  said  this  was  the  last  time  we  should  ever  see  each  other. 
With  a  soft  motherly  gaze  she  looked  at  me,  and  at  parting 
aer  penetrating  eye  followed  me  to  the  door. 

With  railway  and  diligence  my  route  now  led  toward  Tri¬ 
este.  With  steam  the  long  train  of  carriages  flies  along  the 
narrow  rocky  way,  following  all  the  windings  of  the  river. 
One  wonders  that  with  all  these  abrupt  turnings  one  is  not 
dashed  against  the  rock,  or  flung  down  into  the  roaring 
stream,  and  is  glad  when  the  journey  is  happily  accomplished. 
But  in  the  slow  diligence  one  wishes  its  more  rapid  journey 
might  recommence,  and  praise  the  powers  of  the  age. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


256 

At  length  Trieste  and  the  Adriatic  Sea  lay  before  us  ;  the 
Italian  language  sounded  in  our  ears,  but  yet  for  me  it  was 
not  Italy,  the  land  of  my  desire.  Meanwhile  I  was  only  a 
stranger  here  for  a  few  hours  ;  our  Danish  Consul,  as  well  as 
the  consuls  of  Prussia  and  Oldenburg,  to  whom  I  was  recom¬ 
mended,  received  me  in  the  best  possible  manner.  Several 
interesting  acquaintances  were  made,  especially  with  the  Counts 
O’Donnell  and  Waldstein,  the  latter  for  me  as  a  Dane  having 
a  peculiar  interest,  as  being  the  descendant  of  that  unfor¬ 
tunate  Corfitz  Ulfeldt  and  the  daughter  of  Christian  IV., 
Eleanore,  the  noblest  of  all  Danish  women.  Their  portraits 
hung  in  his  room,  and  Danish  memorials  of  that  period  were 
shown  me.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  Eleanore 
Ulfeldt’s  portrait,  and  the  melancholy  smile  on  her  lips  seemed 
to  say,  “  Sing,  poet,  and  free  him  for  whom  it  was  my  happi¬ 
ness  to  live  and  suffer,  from  the  chains  which  a  hard  age  has 
him  cast  upon  !  ”  Before  Oehlenschlager  thought  of  writing 
his  “  Dina,”  which  treats  of  an  episode  in  Ulfeldt’s  life,  I  was 
at  work  on  this  subject,  and  had  collected  considerable  his¬ 
torical  material :  I  wished  to  bring  it  on  the  stage,  but  it  was 
then  feared  this  would  not  be  allowed  ;  that  the  time  lay  too 
near  ours,  and  that  King  Frederick  VI.  would  not  give  permis¬ 
sion  to  have  any  of  his  ancestors,  later  than  Christian  IV., 
brought  on  the  stage.  Count  Rantzau-Breitenburg  assured 
me  that  it  was  so.  Christian  VIII.  who  was  then  prince, 
encouraged  me,  however,  to  elaborate  that  poetical  work, 
“  it  could  at  any  rate  be  read  !  ”  he  said,  but  I  gave  it  up. 

When  King  Christian  VIII.  ascended  the  throne,  all  these 
reasons  fell  to  the  ground,  and  one  day  Oehlenschlager  said 
to  me :  “  Now  I  have  written  a  ‘  Dina,’  which  you  also  once 
ha^e  thought  of.”  His  drama  had  a  plan  and  character 
quite  different  from  mine.  One  may  understand  thus  how 
everything  connected  with  Ulfeldt  and  his  descendants  inter¬ 
ested  me.  Count  Waldstein  told  me  that  there  were  still  in 
his  father’s  castle  in  Hungary  or  Bohemia,  I  do  not  remember 
exacdy  where,  many  letters  and  papers  concerning  Corfitz 
and  Eleanore.  Another  descendant  of  Ulfeldt  I  made  ao 
quaintance  with  in  Sweden,  namely  Count  Beck-Friis ;  the 
picture  of  Christian  IV.,  the  head  of  the  family,  hangs  in 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


257 


the  dining  hall.  Now  they  besought  me  to  relate  what  I  knew 
of  that  family  and  of  all  existing  memories  at  Copenhagen, 
from  “  the  blue  tower  ”  to  the  monument  in  Ulfeldt’s  Square. 
That  monument  has  just  been  removed  by  order  of  the  King. 

On  the  Adriatic  Sea  I  was  carried  in  thought  back  to 
Ulfeldt’s  time  and  the  Danish  islands.  This  meeting  with 
Count  Waldstein  and  his  ancestors’  portrait  brought  me  back 
to  my  poet’s  world,  and  I  almost  forgot  that  the  following  day 
I  could  be  in  the  middle  of  Italy.  In  beautiful  mild  weather 
I  went  with  the  steamboat  to  Ancona. 

It  was  a  quiet  starlight  night,  too  beautiful  to  be  spent  in 
sleep.  In  the  early  morning  the  coast  of  Italy  lay  before  us, 
the  beautiful  blue  mountains  with  glittering  snow.  The  sun 
shone  warmly,  the  grass  and  the  trees  were  splendidly 
green.  Last  evening  in  Trieste,  now  in  Ancona,  in  a  city  of 
the  Papal  States, — it  was  almost  like  enchantment!  Italy 
in  all  its  picturesque  splendor  lay  once  more  before  me  ■ 
spring  had  ripened  all  the  fruit  trees  so  that  they  had  burst 
forth  into  blossom  ;  every  blade  of  grass  in  the  field  was  filled 
with  sunshine,  the  elm-trees  stood  like  caryatides  enwreathed 
with  vines,  which  shot  forth  green  leaves,  and  above  the 
luxuriance  of  foliage  rose  the  wavelike  blue  mountains  with 
their  snow  covering.  In  company  with  Count  Paar  from 
Vienna,  the  most  excellent  travelling  companion  I  have  ever 
had,  and  a  young  nobleman  from  Hungary,  I  now  travelled 
on  with  a  vetturino  for  five  days. 

The  Bohemians  like  all  other  travellers  when  they  come  to 
Italy  for  the  first  time,  expect  to  be  attacked  by  banditti,  as 
I  also  in  my  earlier  days  feared,  and  carry  weapons  and 
pistols  with  them.  “They  are  loaded  with  double  shots!” 
said  he.  “  But  where  are  they  ?  ”  I  asked,  as  I  could  not  dis¬ 
cover  any.  “  I  have  them  in  my  portmanteau  !  ”  And  that 
was  placed  under  my  seat.  As  I  did  not  like  that,  and  could 
also  assure  them  that  the  robbers  would  hardly  wait  until  I 
got  up,  got  the  portmanteau  opened,  and  the  murderous  weap¬ 
ons  out,  they  were  taken  out  and  fastened  over  our  heads 
in  the  carriage,  and  placed  before  us  in  all  the  inns  on  our 
way.  We  visited  Loretto,  saw  the  pious  people  kneeling  in 
the  holy  house,  which  angeis  had  .carried  through  the  air ;  we 

17 


258 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


passed  through  solitary,  romantic  countries  among  the  Apen¬ 
nines.  We  did  not  meet  with  other  robbers  than  some  in 
chains  on  cart  escorted  by  soldiers.  Solitary,  and  more 
picturesque  than  habitable  inns  among  the  Apennines  were 
our  night’s  quarters.  At  length  the  Campagna,  with  its 
ihought-awakening  desolation,  lay  before  us. 

It  was  the  31st  of  March,  1846,  when  I  again  saw  Rome, 
and  for  the  third  time  in  my  life  I  reached  this  city  of  the 
world.  I  felt  so  happy,  so  penetrated  with  thankfulness  and 
joy ;  how  much  more  God  had  given  me  than  a  thousand 
others  —  nay,  than  to  many  thousands  !  And  even  in  this 
very  feeling  there  is  a  blessing  —  where  joy  is  very  great,  as 
in  the  deepest  grief,  there  is  only  God  on  whom  one  can  lean  ! 
The  first  impression  was  —  I  can  find  no  other  word  for  it  — 
adoration.  When  day  unrolled  for  me  my  beloved  Rome,  I 
felt  what  I  cannot  express  more  briefly  or  better  than  I  did 
in  a  letter  to  a  friend  :  “  I  am  growing  here  into  the  very 
ruins  ;  I  live  with  the  petrified  gods,  and  the  roses  are  always 
blooming,  and  the  church  bells  ringing  —  and  yet  Rome  is 
not  the  Rome  it  was  thirteen  years  ago  when  I  first  was  here. 
It  is  as  if  everything  were  modernized,  the  ruins  even,  grass 
and  bushes  are  cleared  away.  Everything  is  made  so  neat  ; 
the  very  life  of  the  people  seems  to  have  retired  ;  I  no  longer 
ear  the  tambourines  in  the  streets,  no  longer  see  the  young 
girls  dancing  their  Saltarella :  even  in  the  Campagna  intelli¬ 
gence  has  entered  by  invisible  railroads  ;  the  peasant  no 
longer  believes  as  he  used  to  do.  At  the  Easter  festival  I 
saw  grtat  numbers  of  t  he  people  from  the  Campagna  standing 
before  St.  Peter’s  whilst  the  Pope  distributed  his  blessing, 
just  as  though  they  had  been  Protestant  strangers.  This  was 
repulsive  to  my  feelings  ;  I  felt  an  impulse  to  kneel  before  the 
invisible  saint.  When  I  was  here  thirteen  years  ago,  all  knelt ; 
now  reason  had  conquered  faith.  Ten  years  later,  when  the 
railways  will  have  brought  cities  still  nearer  to  each  other. 
Rome  will  be  yet  more  changed.  But  in  all  that  happens, 
everything  is  for  the  best ;  one  always  must  love  Rome  ;  it 
is  like  a  story  book :  one  is  always  discovering  new'  wonders* 
and  one  lives  in  imagination  and  reality.” 

The  first  time  I  travelled  to  Italy  I  had  no  eyes  for  sculp* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


2*>9 


hire  ,  in  Paris  the  rich  pictures  drew  me  away  from  the  stat¬ 
ues  ;  for  the  first  time  when  I  came  to  Florence  and  stood 
before  the  “Venus  de  Medici/’  I  felt,  as  Thorwaldsen  ex¬ 
pressed  it,  “the  snow  melt  away  from  my  eyes  and  a  new 
world  of  art  rose  before  me.  And  now  at  my  third  sojourn  in 
Rome,  after  repeated  wanderings  through  the  Vatican,  I  prize 
the  statues  far  higher  than  the  paintings.  But  at  what  other 
places  as  at  Rome,  and  to  some  degree  in  Naples,  does  this 
art  step  forth  so  grandly  into  life  !  One  is  carried  away  by  it, 
one  learns  to  admire  nature  in  the  work  of  art ;  the  beauty  of 
form  becomes  spiritual. 

Among  the  many  clever  and  beautiful  things  which  I  saw 
exhibited  in  the  studios  of  the  young  artists,  two  pieces  of 
sculpture  were  what  most  deeply  impressed  themselves  on  my 
memory  ;  and  these  were  in  the  studio  of  my  countryman 
Jerichau.  I  saw  his  group  of  “  Hercules  and  Hebe,”  which 
had  been  spoken  of  with  such  enthusiasm  in  the  “  Allgemeine 
Zeitung  ”  and  other  German  papers,  and  which,  through  its 
antique  repose,  and  its  glorious  beauty,  powerfully  seized  upon 
me.  My  imagination  was  filled  by  it,  and  yet  I  must  place 
Jerichau’s  later  group,  the  “  Fighting  Hunter,”  still  higher. 
It  is  formed  after  the  model,  as  though  it  had  sprung  from 
nature.  There  lies  in  it  a  truth,  a  beauty,  and  a  grandeur 
which  I  am  convinced  will  make  his  name  resound  through 
many  lands  ! 

I  have  known  him  from  the  time  when  he  was  almost  a  boy. 
We  were  both  of  us  born  on  the  same  island  :  he  is  from  the 
little  town  of  Assens.  We  met  in  Copenhagen.  No  one,  not 
even  he  himself,  knew  what  lay  within  him  ;  and  half  in  jest, 
half  in  earnest,  he  spoke  of  the  combat  with  himself  whether 
he  should  go  to  America  and  become  a  savage,  or  to  Rome 
and  become  an  artist — painter  or  sculptor  :  that  he  did  not 
yet  knovr.  His  pencil  was  meanwhile  thrown  away:  he  mod¬ 
eled  in  clay,  and  my  bust  was  the  first  which  he  made.  He 
received  no  travelling  stipendium  from  the  Academy.  As  far 
as  I  know,  it  was  a  noble-minded  woman,  an  artist  herself, 
unprovided  with  means,  who,  from  the  interest  she  felt  for  the 
spark  of  genius  she  observed  in  him,  assisted  him  so  far  that 
he  reached  Italy  by  means  of  a  trading  vessel.  In  the  begin- 


26o 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


ning  he  worked  in  Thorwaldsen’s  atelier.  During  the  labor 
of  several  years,  he  has  doubtless  experienced  the  struggles 
of  genius  and  the  galling  fetters  of  want ;  but  now  the  star  of 
fortune  shines  upon  him.  When  I  came  to  Rome,  I  found 
him  physically  suffering  and  melancholy.  He  was  unable  to 
bear  the  warm  summers  of  Italy ;  and  many  people  said  he 
could  not  recover  unless  he  visited  the  North,  breathed  the 
cooler  air,  and  took  sea-baths.  His  praises  resounded  through 
the  papers,  glorious  works  stood  in  his  atelier :  but  man  does 
not  live  on  heavenly  bread  alone.  There  came  one  day  a 
Russian  prince,  I  believe,  and  he  gave  a  commission  for  the 
“  Hunter.”  Two  other  commissions  followed  on  the  same  day. 
Jerichau  came  full  of  rejoicing  and  told  this  to  me.  A  few 
days  after  he  travelled  with  his  wife,  a  highly  gifted  painter, 
to  Denmark,  from  whence,  strengthened  in  body  and  soul,  he 
returned,  with  the  winter,  to  Rome,  where  the  strokes  of  his 
chisel  will  resound,  so  that,  I  hope,  the  world  will  hear  them. 
My  heart  will  beat  joyfully  with  them  ! 

I  also  met  in  Rome,  Kolberg,  another  Danish  sculptor, 
until  now  only  known  in  Denmark,  but  there  very  highly 
thought  of,  a  scholar  of  Thorwaldsen’s  and  a  favorite  of  that 
great  master.  He  honored  me  by  making  my  bust.  I  also 
sat  once  more  with  the  kindly  Kiichler,  and  saw  the  forms 
fresh  as  nature  spread  themselves  over  the  canvas. 

I  sat  once  again  with  the  Roman  people  in  the  amusing 
puppet  theatre,  and  heard  the  children’s  merriment.  Among 
the  German  artists,  as  well  as  among  the  Swedes  and  my  own 
countrymen,  I  met  with  a  hearty  reception.  My  birthday 
was  joyfully  celebrated.  Frau  von  Goethe,  who  was  in  Rome, 
and  who  chanced  to  be  living  in  the  very  house  where  I 
brought  my  “  Improvisatore  ”  into  the  world,  and  made  him 
spend  his  first  years  of  childhood,  sent  me  from  thence  a 
large,  true  Roman  bouquet,  a  fragrant  mosaic.  The  Swedish 
painter,  Sodermark,  proposed  my  health  to  the  company 
whom  the  Danes,  Swedes,  and  Norwegians  had  invited  me  to 
neet.  From  my  friends  I  received  some  pretty  pictures  and 
fiiendly  keepsakes. 

Constantly  in  motion,  always  striving  to  employ  every  mo¬ 
ment  and  tc  see  everything,  I  felt  myself  at  last  very  much 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


26l 


affected  by  :he  unceasing  sirocco.  The  Roman  air  did  not 
agree  with  me,  and  I  hastened,  therefore,  as  soon  as  I  had 
seen  the  illumination  of  the  dome  and  the  girandola ,  immedi¬ 
ately  after  the  Easter  festival,  through  Terracina  to  Naples. 
Count  Paar  travelled  with  me.  We  entered  St.  Lucia  :  the 
sea  lay  before  us  ;  Vesuvius  blazed.  Those  were  glorious 
evenings !  moonlight  nights  !  It  was  as  if  the  heavens  had 
elevated  themselves  above  and  the  stars  were  withdrawn. 
What  effect  of  light !  In  the  North  the  moon  scatters  silver 
over  the  water  :  here  it  was  gold.  The  revolving  lanterns  of 
the  light-house  now  exhibited  their  dazzling  light,  now  were 
totally  extinguished.  The  torches  of  the  fishing-boats  threw 
their  obelisk-formed  blaze  along  the  surface  of  the  water,  or 
else  the  boat  concealed  them  like  a  black  shadow,  below 
which  the  surface  of  the  water  was  illuminated.  One  fancied 
one  could  see  to  the  bottom,  where  fishes  and  plants  were  in 
motion.  Along  the  street  itself  thousands  of  lights  were  burn¬ 
ing  in  the  shops  of  the  dealers  in  fruit  and  fish.  Now  came 
a  troop  of  children  with  lights,  and  went  in  procession  to  the 
Church  of  St.  Lucia.  Many  fell  down  with  their  lights  ;  but 
above  the  whole  stood,  like  the  hero  of  this  great  drama  of 
light,  Vesuvius  with  his  blood-red  flame  and  his  illumined 
cloud  of  smoke. 

The  heat  of  the  sun  became  more  and  more  oppressive,  the 
sirocco  blew  dry  and  warm.  As  an  inhabitant  of  the  North, 
I  thought  that  heat  would  do  me  good  ;  I  did  not  know  its 
power,  and  when  the  Neapolitans  wisely  kept  themselves  in¬ 
doors  or  crept  along  in  the  shadows  of  the  houses,  I  ran 
boldly  about  to  Molo,  to  Musaeo  Bourbonico  ;  but  one  day, 
in  the  midst  of  Largo  di  Castello,  it  was  as  if  my  breathing 
would  suddenly  stop,  as  if  the  sun  was  sinking  down  into  my 
eyes ;  its  rays  went  through  my  head  and  back,  and  I  fainted 
away.  When  I  recovered  I  found  I  had  been  carried  into 
a  coffee-house  ;  they  had  laid  ice  upon  my  head  ;  I  was  lame  in 
all  my  limbs,  and  from  that  time  I  did  not  venture  out  in  the 
day-time  ;  the  least  exertion  affected  me,  and  the  only  exercise 
I  could  bear  was  to  take  a  drive  in  a  carriage  up  to  Camaldali, 
and  to  spend  the  evenings  on  the  large,  airy  terraces  at  the 
sea-shore  with  the  Prussian  ambassador,  the  Baron  Brock' 
hausen. 


262 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  visited  the  islands  of  Capri  and  Ischia  cnee  moie.  My 
compatriot,  the  danseuse  Miss  Fjeldsted,  visited  the  baths 
there,  and  had  improved  so  much  that  in  the  evenings  she 
danced  the  Saltarello  with  the  young  girls  under  the  orange- 
trees,  and  had  so  enchanted  the  young  folks  that  they  gave 
her  a  serenade.  Ischia  has  never  had  that  charm  for  me  that 
it  has  for  many  travellers  ;  the  sun  was  too  hot,  and  every  one 
advised  me  to  go  to  Sorrento,  Tasso’s  city,  where  the  air  ap¬ 
peared  lighter. 

In  company  with  an  English  family  whose  acquaintance  I 
had  made  at  Rome,  I  hired  a  couple  of  rooms  out  of  Sorrento 
in  Camello,  near  the  sea,  which  rolled  its  waves  into  the 
caverns  beneath  our  little  garden.  The  heat  of  the  sun  com¬ 
pelled  me  to  stay  in  the  whole  day,  and  here  I  wrote  “  Das 
Marchen  meines  Lebens.’’1  In  Rome,  by  the  bay  of  Naples, 
and  amid  the  Pyrenees,  I  wrote  and  completed  those  sketches 
which  were  to  serve  as  a  commentary  to  my  writings  in  the 
German  edition.  They  were  sent  sheet  by  sheet  in  letters  to 
Copenhagen,  where  one  of  my  clever  friends  had  free  scope 
with  the  manuscript,  and,  after  perusing  it,  sent  it  to  my  pub¬ 
lisher  at  Leipsic,  and  not  a  sheet  was  lost  on  the  way. 

My  stay  in  Camello  was  very  agreeable,  and  the  view  from 
my  windows  and  the  loggia,  unsurpassed.  Vesuvius  and  the 
Mediterranean  lay  before  me,  but  there  was  no  other  walk 
than  the  long,  narrow  way  between  the  high  walls,  which 
surround  and  almost  hide  the  stony  gardens.  One  would 
have  to  be  a  lizard  to  endure  that  burning  heat,  where  not  a 
breath  of  air  stirred,  and  I  should  have  been  obliged  tc  get  a 
pair  of  stilts  before  I  could  look  over  the  walls.  I  moved, 
therefore,  into  the  city  of  Sorrento,  where  the  composers,  the 
Swede  Josephson  and  the  Dutch  Verhulst,  both  friends  of 
mine,  lived  and  kept  their  summer  cottage.  The  very  day  I 
arrived  here  a  great  festival  was  celebrated  :  three  young  girls, 
daughters  of  a  rich  merchant,  took  the  veil.  The  church  was 
adorned  in  the  most  fantastical  way,  an  orchestra  performed 
music,  and  real  opera  buffo  music  too.  We  heard  from  “  The 
Barber  of  Seville  ”  the  whole  aria  of  Don  Bazile  about  slander, 
and  meanwhile  the  cannons  were  thundering  outside.  The 
1  The  German  brief,  of  which  this  book  is  a  fuller  narrative. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


263 

excess  of  variety  destroyed  the  pious  feeling  I  had  brought 
with  me!  an  old,  queer  officer,  who  with  great  difficulty  tried 
to  kneel  down,  did  not  help  to  make  it  more  solemn  for  me  ; 
only  when  the  mass  was  read  by  one  of  the  young  girls,  and 
her  voice  sounded  tenderly  and  with  a  thrill  in  it,  a  more  holy 
feeling  again  took  possession  of  me. 

At  Josephson’s  there  was,  beside  his  personal  amiableness, 
something  else  that  drew  us  nearer  together,  namely,  our 
common  friendship  for  Jenny  Lind.  She  had  been  his  god¬ 
mother  when  he  was  converted  from  the  Jewish  to  the  Chris¬ 
tian  faith,  and  she  had  always  since  shown  him  true  sympathy 
and  friendship.  When  travelling  abroad  he  had  called  upon 
her  at  Berlin,  and  had  daily  visited  her  in  her  home  ;  he  was 
there  called  a  “  Swedish  theological  student,”  which  they  soon 
changed  to  a  “  village  parson.”  The  rumor  ran  that  he  was 
betrothed  to  the  Swedish  Nightingale  ;  everybody  has  read 
and  heard  that  story  !  We  often  had  our  laugh  at  the  genius 
and  inventive  faculty  which  Rumor  possesses. 

The  well-known  festival  of  the  Madonna  dell’  Arco  called 
me  again  to  Naples,  where  I  took  up  my  quarters,  at  a  hotel 
in  the  middle  of  the  city,  near  Toledo  Street,  and  found  an 
excellent  host  and  hostess.  I  had  already  resided  here,  but 
only  in  the  winter.  I  had  now  to  see  Naples  in  its  sum¬ 
mer  heat  and  with  all  its  wild  tumult,  but  in  what  degree  I 
had  never  imagined.  The  sun  shone  down  with  its  burning 
heat  into  the  narrow  streets,  in  at  the  balcony  door.  It  was 
necessary  to  shut  up  every  place  :  not  a  breath  of  air  stirred. 
Every  little  corner,  every  spot  in  the  street  on  which  a  shadow 
fell,  was  crowded  with  working  handicraftsmen,  who  chattered 
'oudly  and  merrily  ;  the  carriages  rolled  p?>ct ;  the  drivers 
screamed  ;  the  tumult  of  the  people  rcu^a  like  a  sea  in  the 
other  streets  ;  the  church  bells  sounded  every  minute ;  my 
pposite  neighbor,  God  knows  who  he  was,  played  the  musical 
•Lcale  from  morning  till  evening.  It  was  enough  to  make  one 
lose  one’s  senses  ! 

The  sirocco  blew  its  boiling-hot  breath  end  I  was  perfectly 
overcome.  There  was  not  another  «oom  to  be  had  at  St. 
Lucia,  and  the  sea-bathing  seemed  rather  to  weaken  than  to 
invigorate  me.  I  went  therefore  again  into  the  country ;  but 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


264 

the  sun  burned  there  with  the  same  beams  ;  yet  though  the 
air  there  was  more  elastic,  for  all  that  it  was  to  me  like  the 
poisoned  mantle  of  Hercules,  which,  as  it  were,  drew  out  of 
me  strength  and  spirit.  I,  who  had  fancied  that  I  must  be 
a  true  child  of  the  sun,  so  firmly  did  my  heart  always  cling 
to  the  South,  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  the  snow  of  the 
North  was  in  my  body,  that  the  snow  melted,  and  that  I  was 
more  and  more  miserable. 

Most  strangers  felt  as  I  myself  did  in  this,  as  the  Neapoli¬ 
tans  themselves  said,  unusually  hot  summer ;  the  greater 
number  went  away.  I  also  would  have  done  the  same,  but  I 
was  obliged  to  wait  several  days  for  a  letter  of  credit ;  it  was 
more  than  three  weeks  since  it  was  due. 

“  There  is  no  letter  for  you  !  ”  always  said  the  mighty 
Rothschild,  to  whom  my  letters  were  addressed  ;  and  one 
day,  tired  of  my  continual  asking,  he  gave  a  vigorous  pull  at 
the  drawer  where  all  the  letters  for  foreigners  were  kept  who 
had  letters  of  credit  upon  the  banker.  “  Here  is  no  letter  !  ” 
but  as  he  pushed  the  drawer  back  again  a  little  angrily,  a 
letter  fell  on  the  floor,  which  was  sealed  with  wax  and  had 
become  glued  on  the  hind-part  of  the  drawer.  The  letter  was 
for  me  and  contained  a  letter  of  credit ;  more  than  a  month 
had  it  lain  here,  and  would  have  remained  there  longer  had 
he  not  pulled  out  the  drawer  so  violently ;  now  then  I  could 
get  away!  Yet  there  was  a  deal  for  me  to  see  in  Naples ;  many 
houses  were  open  to  me.  I  tried  whether  my  will  were  not 
stronger  than  the  Neapolitan  heat,  but  I  fell  into  such  a  ner¬ 
vous  state  in  consequence,  that  till  the  time  of  my  departure 
I  was  obliged  to  lie  quietly  in  my  hot  room,  where  the  night 
brought  no  coolness.  From  dawn  to  midnight  roared  the 
noise  of  bells,  the  cry  of  the  people,  the  trampling  of  horses 
on  the  stone  pavement,  and  the  before-mentioned  practicer  of 
the  scale  —  it  was  like  being  on  the  rack  ;  and  this  caused 
me  to  give  up  my  journey  to  Spain,  especially  as  I  was 
assured,  for  my  consolation,  that  I  should  find  it  just  as  warm 
there  as  here.  The  physician  said  that,  at  this  season  of  the 
year,  I  could  not  sustain  the  journey. 

I  took  a  berth  in  the  steamboat  Castor  for  Marseilles  ;  the 
vessel  was  full  to  overflowing  with  passengers  ;  the  whol* 


I 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  26 5 

w 

qu  arter-deck,  even  the  best  place,  was  occupied  by  travelling 
carriages  ;  under  one  of  these  I  had  my  bed  laid  ;  many  peo 
pie  followed  my  example,  and  the  quarter-deck  was  soon 
covered  with  mattresses  and  carpets.  One  of  the  first  of  the 
English  nobility,  the  Marquis  of  Douglas,  married  to  the 
Frincess  of  Baden,  was  on  board  with  his  wife.  We  con¬ 
versed  together ;  he  learned  that  I  was  a  Dane  but  did  not 
know  my  name.  We  talked  of  Italy  and  of  what  had  been 
written  about  that  country  ;  I  named  “  Corinna,”  by  Madame 
de  Stael-Holstein  ;  he  interrupted  me  by  saying  :  — 

“  You  have  a  countryman  who  has  still  better  described  Italy 
for  us  !  ” 

“  The  Danes  do  not  think  so  !  ”  I  answered. 

He  spoke  in  high  praise  of  “  The  Improvisatore  ”  and  its 
author.  “  It  is  a  pity,”  said  I,  “  that  Andersen  had  been 
there  so  short  a  time  when  he  wrote  his  book  !  ” 

“  He  has  lived  there  many  years  !  ”  answered  the  Marquis. 

“  O  no,”  I  assured  him,  “  only  ten  months ;  I  know  it  ex¬ 
actly  !  ” 

“  I  should  like  to  know  that  man,”  said  he. 

“  That  is  very  easy  !  ”  continued  I,  “  he  is  here  on  board,” 
and  now  I  told  him  whom  I  was. 

It  blew  strongly ;  the  wind  increased,  and  in  the  second  and 
third  night  raged  to  a  perfect  storm  ;  the  ship  rolled  from  side 
to  side  like  a  cask  in  the  open  sea ;  the  waves  dashed  against 
the  ship’s  side,  and  lifted  up  their  broad  heads  above  the  bul¬ 
warks  as  if  they  would  look  in  upon  us.  It  was  as  if  the  car¬ 
riages  under  which  we  lay  would  £rush  11s  to  pieces,  or  else 
would  be  washed  away  by  the  sea.  There  was  a  lamentation, 
but  I  lay  quiet,  looked  up  at  the  driving  clouds,  and  thought 
upon  God  and  my  beloved. 

When  at  length  we  reached  Genoa  most  of  the  passengers 
went  on  land  :  I  should  have  been  willing  enough  to  have 
followed  their  example,  that  I  might  go  by  Milan  to  Switzer¬ 
land,  but  my  letter  of  credit  was  drawn  upon  Marseilles  and 
some  Spanish  seaports.  I  was  obliged  to  go  again  on  board. 
The  sea  was  calm  ;  the  air  fresh  ;  it  was  a  most  glorious  voy¬ 
age  along  the  charming  Sardinian  coast.  Full  of  strength 
and  new ‘life  I  arrived  at  Marseille?  and,  as  I  here  breathed 


266 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


more  easily,  my  longing  to  see  Spain  was  again  renewed.  I 
had  laid  the  plan  of  seeing  this  country  last,  as  the  bouquet 
of  my  journey.  In  the  suffering  state  in  which  I  had  been  I 
was  obliged  to  give  it  up,  but  I  was  now  better.  1  regarded  it, 
therefore,  as  a  pointing  of  the  finger  of  Heaven  that  I  should 
be  compelled  to  go  to  Marseilles,  and  determined  to  venture 
upon  the  journey.  The  steam-vessel  to  Barcelona  had,  in  the 
mean  time,  just  sailed,  and  several  days  must  pass  before  an¬ 
other  set  out.  I  determined  therefore  to  travel  by  short  days’ 
journeys  through  the  South  of  France  across  the  Pyrenees. 

Before  leaving  Marseilles,  chance  favored  me  with  a  short 
meeting  with  one  of  my  friends  from  the  North,  and  this  was 
Ole  Bull  !  He  came  from  America,  and  was  received  in 
France  with  jubilees  and  serenades,  of  which  I  was  myself  a 
witness.  At  the  table  d’hote  in  the  Hotel  des  PImpereurs, 
where  we  both  lodged,  we  flew  toward  each  other.  He  told 
me,  what  I  should  have  expected  least  of  all,  that  my  works 
had  also  many  friends  in  America,  that  people  had  inquired 
from  him  about  me  with  the  greatest  interest,  and  that  the 
English  translations  of  my  romances  had  been  reprinted,  and 
spread  through  the  whole  country  in  cheap  editions.  My 
name  flown  over  the  great  ocean  !  I  felt  myself  at  this 
thought  quite  insignificant,  but  yet  glad  and  happy ;  where¬ 
fore  should  I,  in  preference  to  so  many  thousand  others,  re¬ 
ceive  such  happiness?  I  had  and  still  have  a  feeling  as 
though  I  were  a  poor  peasant  lad  over  whom  a  royal  mantle 
is  thrown.  Yet  I  was  and  am  made  happy  by  all  this  !  Is 
this  vanity,  or  does  it  sho\y  itself  in  these  expressions  of  my 
joy  ? 

Ole  Bull  went  to  Algiers,  I  toward  the  Pyrenees.  Through 
Provence,  which  looked  to  me  quite  Danish,  I  reached  Nismes, 
where  the  grandeur  of  the  splendid  Roman  amphitheatre  at 
once  carried  me  back  to  Italy.  The  memorials  of  antiquity 
in  the  South  of  France  I  have  never  heard  praised  as  their 
greatness  and  number  deserve  ;  the  so  called  Maison  Quarree 
is  still  standing  in  all  its  splendor,  like  the  Theseus  Temple  at 
Atnens  :  Rome  has  nothing  so  well  preserved. 

In  Nismes  dwells  the  baker  Reboul,  who  writes  the  most 
charming  poems ;  whoever  may  not  chance  to  know  him  from 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  x6j 

these,  is,  however,  well  acquainted  with  him  through  Lamar¬ 
tine’s  “Journey  to  the  East.”  I  found  him  at  his  house, 
stepped  into  the  bakehouse,  and  addressed  myself  to  a  man  in 
shirt  sleeves  who  was  putting  bread  into  the  oven  ;  it  was 
Reboul  himself!  A  noble  countenance  which  expressed  a 
manly  character  greeted  me.  When  I  mentioned  my  name, 
he  was  courteous  enough  to  say  he  was  acquainted  with  it 
through  the  “  Revue  de  Paris,”  and  begged  me  to  visit  him  in 
the  afternoon,  when  he  should  be  able  to  entertain  me  better. 
When  I  came  again  I  found  him  in  a  little  room  which  might 
be  called  almost  elegant,  adorned  with  pictures,  casts,  and 
books,  not  alone  French  literature,  but  translations  of  the 
Greek  classics.  A  picture  on  the  wall  represented  his  most 
celebrated  poem,  “  The  Dying  Child,”  from  Marmier’s  “  Chan¬ 
sons  du  Nord.”  He  knew  I  had  treated  the  same  subject,  and 
I  told  him  that  this  was  written  in  my  school  days.  If  in  the 
morning  I  had  found  him  the  industrious  baker,  he  was  now 
the  poet  completely  ;  he  spoke  with  animation  of  the  literature 
of  his  country,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  North,  the 
scenery  and  intellectual  life  of  which  seemed  to  interest  him. 
With  great  respect  I  took  leave  of  a  man  whom  the  Muses 
have  not  meanly  endowed,  and  who  yet  has  good  sense 
enough,  spite  of  all  the  homage  paid  him,  to  remain  steadfast 
to  his  honest  business,  and  prefer  being  the  most  remarkable 
baker  of  Nismes  to  losing  himself  in  Paris,  after  a  short 
triumph,  among  hundreds  of  other  poets. 

By  railway  I  now  travelled  by  way  of  Montpellier  to  Cette, 
with  that .  rapidity  which  a  train  possesses  in  France  ;  you  fly 
there  as  though  for  a  wager  with  the  Wild  Huntsman.  I  in-* 
voluntarily  remembered  that  at  Basle,  at  the  corner  of  a  street 
where  formerly  the  celebrated  “  Dance  of  Death  ”  was  painted, 
there  is  written  up  in  large  letters,  “  Dance  of  Death,”  and  on 
the  opposite  corner,  “Way  to  the  Railroad.”  This  singular 
juxtaposition  just  at  the  frontiers  of  France,  gives  play  to  the 
fancy ;  in  this  rushing  flight  it  came  into  my  thoughts  ;  if 
seemed  as  though  the  steam  whisile  gave  the  signal  to  the 
dance.  On  Germar  railways  one  does  not  have  such  wild 
fancies. 

The  islander  loves  the  sea  as  the  mountaineer  loves  his 


268 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


mountains  !  Every  seaport  town,  however  small  it  may  be, 
receives  in  my  eyes  a  peculiar  charm  from  the  sea.  Was  it 
the  sea,  in  connection  perhaps  with  the  Danish  tongue,  which 
sounded  in  mv  ears  in  two  houses  in  Cette,  that  made  this 
town  so  homelike  to  me  ?  I  know  not,  but  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
in  Denmark  rather  than  in  the  South  of  France.  When  far 
from  your  country  you  enter  a  house  where  all,  from  the  mastei 
and  mistress  to  the  servants,  speak  your  own  language,  as  was 
here  the  case,  these  home  tones  have  a  real  power  of  enchant¬ 
ment  :  like  the  mantle  of  Faust,  in  a  moment  they  transport 
you,  house  and  all,  into  your  own  land.  Here,  however,  there 
was  no  northern  summer,  but  the  hot  sun  of  Naples  ;  it  might 
even  have  burnt  Faust’s  cap.  The  sun’s  rays  destroyed  all 
strength.  For  many  years  there  had  not  been  such  a  sum¬ 
mer,  even  here  ;  and  from  the  country  round  about  came 
accounts  of  people  who  had  died  from  the  heat :  the  very 
nights  were  hot.  I  was  told  beforehand  I  should  be  unable 
to  bear  the  journey  in  Spain.  I  felt  this  myself,  but  then 
Spain  was  to  be  the  bouquet  of  my  journey.  I  already  saw 
the  Pyrenees ;  the  blue  mountains  enticed  me  —  and  one 
morning  early  I  found  myself  on  the  steamboat. 

The  sun  rose  higher  ;  it  burnt  above,  it  burnt  from  the 
expanse  of  waters  ;  myriads  of  jelly-like  medusas  filled  the 
river  ;  it  was  as  though  the  sun’s  rays  had  changed  the  whole 
sea  into  a  heaving  world  of  animal  life  ;  I  had  never  before 
seen  anything  like  it.  In  the  Languedoc  Canal  we  had  all  to 
get  into  a  large  boat  which  had  been  constructed  more  for 
goods  than  for  passengers.  The  deck  was  covered  with  boxes 
and  trunks,  and  these  again  occupied  by  people  who  sought 
shade  under  umbrellas.  It  was  impossible  to  move  ;  no 
railing  surrounded  this  pile  of  boxes  and  people,  which  was 
drawn  along  by  three  or  four  horses  attached  by  long  ropes. 
Beneath  in  the  cabins  it  was  as  crowded  ;  people  sat  close  to 
each  other,  like  flies  in  a  cup  of  sugar.  A  lady  who  had 
fainted  from  the  heat  and  tobacco  smoke,  was  carried  in  and 
laid  upon  the  only  unoccupied  spot  on  the  fiooi  ,  she  was 
brought  here  for  air,  but  air  there  was  none,  spite  of  the 
number  of  fans  in  motion  ;  there  were  no  refreshments  to  be 
had,  not  even  a  drink  of  water,  except  the  warm,  yellow  water 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  USE.  260 

which  the  canal  afforded.  Over  the  cabin  windows  hung 
booted  legs,  which  at  the  same  time  that  they  deprived  the 
cabin  of  light,  seemed  to  give  a  substance  to  the  oppressive 
air.  Shut  up  in  this  place  one  had  also  the  torment  of  being 
forced  to  listen  to  a  man  who  was  always  trying  to  say  some¬ 
thing  witty;  the  stream  of  words  played  about  his  li|  s  as  the 
canal  water  about  the  boat.  I  made  myself  a  way  through 
boxes,  people,  and  umbrellas,  and  stood  in  a  boiling-hot  air  ; 
on  either  side  the  prospect  was  eternally  the  same  :  green 
grass,  a  green  tree,  flood-gates  —  green  grass,  a  green  tree, 
flood-gates  —  and  then  again  the  same ;  it  was  enough  to 
drive  one  insane. 

At  the  distance  of  a  half-hour’s  journey  from  Bdziers  we 
were  put  on  land  ;  I  felt  almost  ready  to  faint,  and  there  was 
no  carriage  here,  for  the  omnibus  had  not  expected  us  so 
early ;  the  sun  burnt  infernally.  People  say  the  South  of 
France  is  a  portion  of  Paradise  ;  under  the  present  circum¬ 
stances  it  seemed  to  me  a  portion  of  hell  with  all  its  heat. 
In  Beziers  the  diligence  was  waiting,  but  all  the  best  places 
were  already  taken  ;  and  I  here  for  the  first,  and  I  hope  for 
the  last  time,  got  into  the  hinder  part  of  such  a  conveyance. 
An  ugly  woman  in  slippers,  and  with  a  head-dress  a  yard  high, 
which  she  hung  up,  took  her  seat  beside  me  ;  and  now  came 
a  singing  sailor  who  had  certainly  drunk  too  many  healths  ; 
then  a  couple  of  dirty  fellows,  whose  first  maneuver  was  to 
pull  off  their  boots  and  coats  and  sit  upon  them,  hot  and  dirty, 
whilst  the  thick  clouds  of  dust  whirled  into  the  vehicle,  and 
the  sun  burnt  and  blinded  me.  It  was  impossible  to  endure 
this  further  than  Narbonne  ;  sick  and  suffering,  I  sought  rest, 
but  then  came  gens-d’armes  and  demanded  my  passport,  and 
then  just  as  night  began,  a  fire  must  needs  break  out  in  the 
neighboring  village  ;  the  fire  alarm  resounded,  the  fire-engines 
rolled  along,  it  was  just  as  though  all  manner  of  tormenting 
spirits  were  let  loose.  From  here  as  far  as  the  Pyrenees 
there  followed  repeated  demands  for  your  passport,  so  weari¬ 
some  that  you  know  nothing  like  it  even  in  Italy  :  they  gave 
you  as  a  reason,  the  nearness  to  the  Spanish  frontiers,  the 
number  of  fugitives  from  thence,  and  several  murders  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  neighborhood  :  all  conduced  to  makfj 
the  journey  in  my  then  state  of  health  a  real  torment. 


270 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  reached  Perpignan.  The  sun  had  here  also  swept  the 
streets  of  people ;  it  was  only  at  night  time  that  they  came 
forth,  but  then  it  was  like  a  roaring  stream,  as  though  a  real 
tumult  were  about  to  destroy  the  town.  The  human  crowd 
moved  in  waves  beneath  my  windows,  a  loud  shout  resounded  • 
it  pierced  through  my  sick  frame.  What  was  that  ?  —  wha 
did  it  mean  ?  “  Good  evening,  M.  Arago  !  ”  resounded  from 
the  strongest  voices,  thousands  repeated  it,  and  music  sounded  ; 
it  was  the  celebrated  Arago,  who  was  staying  in  the  room 
next  to  mine  :  the  people  gave  him  a  serenade.  Now  this 
was  the  third  I  had  witnessed  on  my  journey.  Arago  ad¬ 
dressed  them  from  the  balcony,  the  shouts  of  the  people  filled 
the  streets.  There  are  few  evenings  in  my  life  when  I  have 
felt  so  ill  as  on  this  one  ;  the  tumult  went  through  my  nerves  ; 
the  beautiful  singing  which  followed  could  not  refresh  me. 
Ill  as  I  was,  I  gave  up  every  thought  of  travelling  into  Spain  ; 
I  felt  it  would  be  impossible  for  me.  Ah,  if  I  could  only 
recover  strength  enough  to  reach  Switzerland  !  I  was  filled 
with  horror  at  the  idea  of  the  journey  back.  I  was  advised 
to  hasten  as  quickly  as  possible  to  the  Pyrenees,  and  there 
breathe  the  strengthening  mountain  air :  the  baths  of  Vernet 
were  recommended  as  cool  and  excellent,  and  I  had  a  letter 
of  introduction  to  the  head  of  the  establishment  there.  After 
an  exhausting  journey  of  a  night  and  some  hours  in  the  morn¬ 
ing,  I  reached  the  place.  The  air  was  cool,  and  more  strength¬ 
ening,  than  I  breathed  for  months.  A  few  days  here  entirely 
restored  me,  my  pen  flew  again  over  the  paper,  and  my 
thoughts  toward  that  wonderful  Spain. 

Vernet  as  yet  is  not  one  of  the  well-known  bathing  places, 
although  it  possesses  the  peculiarity  of  being  visited  all  the 
year  round.  The  most  celebrated  visitor  last  winter  was 
Ibrahim  Pacha  ;  his  name  still  lives  on  the  lips  of  the  hostess 
and  waiters  as  the  greatest  glory  of  the  establishment ;  his 
rooms  were  shown  first  as  a  curiosity.  Among  the  anecdotes 
current  about  him  is  the  story  of  his  fwo  French  phrases,  merci 
ana  ires  bien,  which  he  pronounced  in  a  perfectly  wrong  man¬ 
ner. 

In  every  respect,  Vernet  among  baths  is  as  yet  in  a  state  of 
innocence  ;  it  is  only  in  point  of  great  bills  that  the  Command- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


2JI 


ant  has  been  able  to  raise  it  on  a  level  with  the  first  in 
Europe.  As  for  the  rest,  you  live  here  in  a  solitude,  and  sepa¬ 
rated  from  the  world  as  in  no  other  bathing-place ;  for  the 
amusement  of  the  guests  nothing  in  the  least  has  been  done  ; 
this  must  be  sought  in  wanderings  on  foot  or  on  donkey-back 
among  the  mountains  ;  but  here  all  is  so  peculiar  and  full  of 
variety,  that  the  want  of  artificial  pleasures  is  the  less  felt. 

It  is  here  as  though  the  most  opposite  natural  productions 
had  been  mingled  together — northern  and  southern,  moun¬ 
tain  and  valley  vegetation.  From  one  point  you  will  look 
over  vineyards,  and  up  to  a  mountain  which  looks  like  a  sample 
card  of  corn-fields,  and  green  meadows  where  the  hay  stands 
in  cocks  ;  from  another  you  will  only  see  the  naked,  metallic 
rocks,  with  strange  crags  jutting  forth  from  them,  long  and  nar¬ 
row  as  though  they  were  broken  statues  or  pillars  ;  now  you 
walk  under  poplar-trees,  through  small  meadows,  where  the 
balm- mint  grows,  as  thoroughly  Danish  a  production  as  though 
it  were  cut  out  of  Zealand  ;  now  you  stand  under  shelter  of  the 
rock,  where  cypresses  and  figs  spring  forth  among  vine  leaves, 
and  see  a  piece  of  Italy.  But  the  soul  of  the  whole,  the 
pulses  which  beat  audibly  in  millions  through  the  mountain 
chain,  are  the  springs.  There  is  a  life,  a  babbling  in  the  ever- 
rushing  waters  !  It  springs  forth  everywhere,  murmurs  in  the 
moss,  rushes  over  the  great  stones.  There  is  a  movement,  a 
life  which  it  is  impossible  for  words  to  give  ;  you  hear  a  con¬ 
stant  rushing  chorus  of  a  million  strings  ;  above  and  below 
you,  and  all  around,  you  hear  the  babbling  of  the  rivei 
nymphs. 

High  on  the  cliff,  at  the  edge  of  a  steep  precipice,  are  the 
remains  of  a  Moorish  castle ;  the  clouds  hang  where  hung  the 
balcony  ;  the  path  along  which  the  ass  now  goes,  leads  through 
the  hall.  From  here  you  can  enjoy  the  view  over  the  whole 
valley,  which,  long  and  narrow,  seems  like  a  river  of  trees, 
which  winds  among  the  red,  scorched  rocks  ;  and  in  the  mid¬ 
dle  of  this  green  valley  rises,  terrace-like  on  a  hill,  the  little 
town  of  Vernet,  which  only  wants  minarets  to  look  like  a  Bul¬ 
garian  town.  A  miserable  church  with  two  long  holes  as  win* 
dov  s,  and  close  to  it  a  ruined  tower,  form  the  upper  portion, 
Aien  come  the  dark  brown  roofs,  ana  the  dirty  gray  houses 


272 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


with  opened  shutters  instead  of  windows  ;  but  picturesque  it 
certainly  is. 

But  if  you  enter  the  town  itself  —  where  the  apothecary’s 
shop  is,  as  also  the  book-seller’s  —  poverty  is  the  only  impres¬ 
sion.  Almost  all  the  houses  are  built  of  unhewn  stones,  piled 
one  upon  another,  and  two  or  three  gloomy  holes  form  door 
and  windows,  through  which  the  swallows  fly  out  and  in. 
Wherever  I  entered,  I  looked  through  the  worn  floor  of  the  first 
story  down  into  a  chaotic  gloom  beneath.  On  the  wall  hangs 
generally  a  bit  of  fat  meat  with  the  hairy  skin  attached  ;  it 
was  explained  to  me  that  this  was  used  to  ‘rub  their  shoes 
with.  The  sleeping- room  is  painted  in  the  most  glaring  man¬ 
ner  with  saints,  angels,  garlands,  and  crowns  al  fresco ,  as  if 
done  when  the  art  of  painting  was  in  its  greatest  state  of  im¬ 
perfection. 

The  people  are  unusually  ugly ;  the  very  children  are  real 
gnomes  ;  the  expression  of  childhood  does  not  soften  the 
clumsy  features.  But  a  few  hours’  journey  on  the  other  side 
of  the  mountains,  on  the  Spanish  side,  there  blooms  beauty, 
there  flash  merry  brown  eyes.  The  only  poetical  picture  I 
retain  of  Vernet  was  this.  In  the  market-place,  under  a  splen¬ 
didly  large  tree,  a  wandering  peddler  had  spread  out  all  his 
wares,  —  handkerchiefs,  books,  and  pictures,  —  a  whole  bazaar, 
but  the  earth  was  his  table  ;  all  the  ugly  children  of  the  town, 
burnt  through  by  the  sun,  stood  assembled  round  these 
fine  things  ;  several  old  women  looked  out  from  their  open 
shops  ;  on  horses  and  asses  the  visitors  to  the  bath,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  rode  by  in  long  procession,  whilst  two  little 
children,  half  hid  behind  a  heap  of  planks,  played  at  being 
cocks,  and  shouted  all  the  time  “  Kekkeriki  !  ” 

Far  more  of  a  town,  habitable  and  well-appointed,  is  the 
garrison  town  of  Villefranche,  with  its  castle  of  the  age  of 
Louis  XIV.,  which  lies  a  few  hours’  journey  from  this  place. 
The  road  by  Olette  to  Spain  passes  through  it,  and  there  is 
also  some  business  ;  many  houses  attract  your  eye  by  their 
beautiful  Moorish  windows  carved  in  marble.  The  church  is 
built  half  in  the  Moorish  style,  the  altars  are  such  as  are  seen  in 
Spanish  churches,  and  the  Virgin  stands  there  with  the  Child, 
ill  dressed  in  gold  and  silver.  I  visited  Villefranche  one  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 

the  first  days  of  my  sojourn  here  ;  all  the  visitors  made  the 
excursion  with  me,  to  which  end  all  the  horses  and  asses  far 
and  near  were  brought  together ;  horses  were  put  into  the 
Commandant’s  venerable  coach,  and  it  was  occupied  by  peo¬ 
ple  within  and  without,  just  as  though  it  had  been  a  French 
public  vehicle.  A  most  amiable  Holsreiner,  the  best  rider  of 
the  company,  the  well-known  painter  Dauzats,  a  friend  of 
Alexandre  Dumas’s,  led  the  train.  The  forts,  the  barracks, 
and  the  caves  were  seen  ;  the  little  town  of  Cornelia  also, 
with  its  interesting  church,  was  not  passed  over.  Everywhere 
were  found  traces  of  the  power  and  art  of  the  Moors ;  every 
thing  in  this  neighborhood  speaks  more  of  Spain  than  of 
France  ;  the  very  language  wavers  between  the  two. 

And  here  in  this  fresh  mountain  nature,  on  the  frontiers 
of  a  land  whose  beauty  and  defects  I  am  yet  to  become 
acquainted  with,  I  will  close  these  pages,  which  will  make  in 
my  life  a  frontier  to  coming  years,  with  their  beauty  and  de¬ 
fects.  Before  I  leave  the  Pyrenees  these  written  pages  will 
fly  to  Germany,  a  great  section  of  my  life ;  I  myself  shall  fol¬ 
low,  and  a  new  and  unknown  section  will  begin.  What  may 
it  unfold  ?  I  know  not,  but  thankfully,  hopefully,  I  look  for¬ 
ward.  My  whole  life,  the  bright  as  well  as  the  gloomy  days, 
led  to  the  best.  It  is  like  a  voyage  to  some  known  point,  — 
I  stand  at  the  rudder,  I  have  chosen  mv  path,  but  God  rules 
the  storm  and  the  sea.  He  may  direct  it  otherwise  ;  and  then, 
happen  what  may,  it  will  be  the  best  for  me.  This  faith  is 
firmly  planted  in  my  breast,  and  makes  me  happy. 

The  story  of  my  life,  up  to  the  present  hour,  lies  unrolled 
before  me,  so  rich  and  beautiful  that  I  could  not  have  in¬ 
vented  it.  I  feel  that  I  am  a  child  of  good  fortune  ;  almost 
every  one  meets  me  full  of  love  and  candor,  and  seldom  has 
my  confidence  in  human  nature  been  deceived.  From  the 
prince  to  the  poorest  peasant  I  have  felt  the  noble  human 
heart  beat.  It  is  a  joy  to  live  and  to  believe  in  God  and  man 
Openiy  and  full  of  confidence,  as  if  I  sat  among  dear  friends, 
I  have  here  related  the  story  of  my  life,  have  spoken  both  of 
my  sorrows  and  joys,  and  have  expressed  my  pleasure  at  each 
mark  of  applause  and  recognition,  as  I  believe  I  might  even 
express  it  before  God  himself.  But  then,  whether  this  may 

j8 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


274 

be  vanity  ?  I  know  not :  my  heart  was  affected  and  humble 
at  the  same  time,  my  thought  was  gratitude  to  God.  That  1 
have  related  it  is  not  alone  because  such  a  biographical  sketch 
as  this  was  desired  from  me  for  the  collected  edition  of  my 
works,  but  because,  as  has  been  already  said,  the  history  of 
my  life  will  be  the  best,  commentary  to  all  my  works. 

In  a  few  days  I  shall  say  farewell  to  the  Pyrenees,  and 
return  through  Switzerland  to  dear,  kind  Germany,  where  so 
much  joy  has  flowed  into  my  life,  where  I  possess  so  many 
sympathizing  friends,  where  my  writings  have  been  so  kindly 
and  encouragingly  received,  and  where  also  these  sheets  will 
be  gently  criticised. 

When  the  Christmas-tree  is  lighted,  —  when,  as  people  say, 
the  white  bees  swarm,  —  I  shall  be,  God  willing,  again  in 
Denmark  with  my  dear  ones,  my  heart  filled  with  the  flowers 
of  travel,  and  strengthened  both  in  body  and  mind :  then 
will  new  works  grow  upon  paper :  may  God  lay  his  blessing 
upon  them  !  He  will  do  so.  A  star  of  good  fortune  shines 
upon  me  ;  there  are  thousands  who  deserve  it  far  more  than 
I  ;  I  often  myself  cannot  conceive  why  I,  in  preference  to 
numberless  others,  should  receive  so  much  joy  :  may  it  con¬ 
tinue  to  shine  !  But  should  it  set,  perhaps  whilst  I  conclude 
these  lines,  still  it  has  shone,  I  have  received  my  rich  portion  ; 
let  it  set !  From  this  also  the  best  will  spring.  To  God  and 
men  my  thanks,  my  love  ! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


'  1NE  years  have  elapsed,  —  years  rich  for  history  ;  serious 


i.  but  great  days  for  Denmark  ;  sorrowful,  but  at  the  same 
time  also  happy  ones  for  me.  They  have  brought  me  my 
country’s  full  acknowledgment ;  they  have,  it  is  true,  made  me 
older,  but  still  they  have  kept  me  young  ;  they  have  brought 
me  repose  and  serenity.  I  am  here  going  to  unfold  this  new 
period  of  my  life  ! 

Strengthened  by  the  mountain  air,  and  having  regained  my 
vigor  for  the  homeward  journey,  I  intended  to  go  from  Vernet 
to  Switzerland,  arranging  it  so  that  I  only  travelled  nights  in 
the  diligences  and  remained  the  hot  days  in  Perpignan  and 
Narbonne.  Still  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  was  transferred  from 
the  life-nourishing  air  to  an  element  where  the  vital  substance 
was  wanting.  A  heavy,  dull,  and  gloomy  air  surrounded  mu\ 
producing  real  suffering,  and  I  soon  felt  as  if  every  nerve  were 
on  fire.  The  nights  brought  no  freshness  except  for  the  flies, 
which  now  gathered  strength  for  their  round-dances.  A 
couple  of  days’  or  rather  of  nights’  repose  at  Cette,  where  1 
slept  on  my  mattress  on  the  balcony  of  the  house  under  a 
starlit  heaven,  kept  me  up.  All  that  I  know  about  the  beauty 
of  Montpellier  is  that  it  lay  in  sunbeams,  which  burnt  me 
through.  My  room,  closed  with  tight  shutters,  was  the  com¬ 
mon  abode  for  all  the  travellers,  who  were  dressed  as  if 
going  to  take  a  bath. 

During  our  swift  flight  on  the  railroad  we  got  information 
of  a  horrible  disaster  which  had  occurred  on  the  northern 
railway  of  France.  At  any  other  time,  had  I  been  well,  this 
would  have  stirred  my  fancy,  but  now  I  was  so  affected  by 
the  burning  sun  of  Southern  France,  that  I  felt  a  kind  of 
sea-sickness  ;  I  was  in  a  state  of  depression  that  made  me 
indifferent  to  all  that  happened.  The  railroad  stopped  at 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


276 

Nimes,  and  we  were  obliged  to  take  the  crowded  and  dusty 
diligence  for  Avignon. 

The  almond-trees  stood  laden  with  ripe  fruit,  and  almonds 
and  figs  were  almost  the  only  things  I  lived  on.  Resting,  and 
that  always  behind  closed  window-shutters,  is  a  very  sad  trav¬ 
elling  life  !  The  Pope’s  castle  here  resembled  a  fortress  ;  it 
had  been  transformed  to  a  barrack,  and  the  cathedral  looked 
as  if  it  were  only  a  little  wing  of  it.  In  the  museum  was 
VernePs  statue  of  Thorwaldsen,  on  which  some  wiseacre  had 
erased  with  a  lead-pencil  the  word  “  danois  ”  from  his  name. 
Two  pictures  of  Vernet,  given  by  him  “to  the  good  city  of 
Avignon,”  hung  here,  representing  “  Mazeppa,”  but  a  little  dif 
ferent  from  the  engravings.  There  was  life  and  movement  in 
the  streets  in  the  evening  ;  a  mountebank  on  horseback  with 
a  drum  cried  his  wares,  like  another  Dulcamara.  Vine 
leaves  were  profusely  twined  about  the  windows,  like  awnings 
stretched  out  to  shelter  from  the  sunbeams.  I  was  very 
near  Vaucluse,  but  I  had  not  strength  enough  to  make  a  trip 
thither ;  all  that  I  had  was  to  be  saved  for  getting  me  to 
Switzerland,  where  I  expected  to  find  coolness  among  the 
mountains.  So  I  was  not  to  see  the  celebrated  fountain  of 
Vaucluse,  the  stream  that  bore  the  image  of  Laura,  —  that 
image  which  Petrarch’s  verses  will  eternally  bear  round  the 
world. 

The  river  Rhone  runs  so  rapidly  that  the  steamboat  down 
the  stream  requires  only  one  day  between  Lyons  and  Mar¬ 
seilles,  while  four  days  in  all  against  the  stream.  I  preferred 
the  quick-rolling  diligence,  which  started  like  the  wild  horses 
in  the  Leonore  ballads,  to  the  disagreeable  steamer.  The  an¬ 
tique  Roman  theatre  of  Orange  stood  high  above  all  the  other 
newer  buildings  ;  the  Arch  of  Triumph  of  Septimius  Severus, 
and  all  the  rich  works  of  Roman  magnificence  with  which  the 
banks  of  the  Rhone  are  strewn,  carried  one’s  thoughts  toward 
Italy.  I  had  never  before  known  anything  of  the  grandeur 
of  tnose  Roman  remains  which  the  South  of  France  here 
presents.  The  banks  of  the  river  became  more  and  more 
various  ;  I  saw  towns  with  beautiful  Gothic  churches,  and  on 
the  mountains  old  castles,  lying  there  like  huge  bats.  Beau 
tiful,  hovering  suspension-bridges  were  stretched  over  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


277 


swift  stream,  against  which  the  dirty  vessel  worked  itself  up. 
At  length  I  arrived  at  Lyons,  where  the  river  Rhone  takes  up 
the  Saone.  From  one  of  the  most  elevated  streets  there  I 
discerned,  many,  many  miles  far  to  the  northeast,  a  white 
shining  cloud,  rising  over  the  even,  green  plain  ;  it  was  Mont 
Blanc  :  there  was  Switzerland !  So  near  was  I  now  to  that 
place,  where  I  hoped  again  to  drink  in  the  air  and  feel  new 
freedom  in  body  and  soul ;  but  the  Swiss  Consul  would  not 
vise  my  passport  until  the  police  of  Lyons  had  given  their 
signature,  and  the  passport  was  declared  irregular.  I  care, 
perhaps,  too  much  about  passports  and  vises  when  I  travel, 
and  my  anxiety  to  have  everything  right  is  no  doubt  absurd  ; 
yet  for  all  that  I  am  always  the  man  among  thousands  of 
other  travellers  who  meets  with  the  most  passport  annoyances. 
Now  they  cannot  read,  then  a  subordinate  clerk  writes  a  wrong 
number  on  it  so  that  it  is  not  to  be  found  again  ;  an  Italian 
boundary-officer  finds  fault  with  the  name  “  Christian,”  and 
thinks  that  it  is  a  religious  sect,  calling  themselves  particu¬ 
larly  by  that  name.  In  Lyons  they  told  me  that  the  passport 
should  have  been  sent  from  the  frontier  directly  to  Paris  to 
be  verified  there  by  the  Minister  of  the  Interior.  I  ran  the 
whole  day  to  and  from  the  Prefecture  de  Police,  until  I  threw 
myself  upon  the  compassion  of  one  of  the  higher  police  offi¬ 
cers,  to  whom  I  declared  that  nobody  had  before  claimed  of 
me  nor  told  me  that  I  must  send  my  passport  to  Paris,  where 
I  had  no  intention  of  going.  They  told  me  that  it  was 
necessary  to  return  to  Marseilles  in  order  to  let  the  Danish 
Consul  get  the  passport  in  order  for  Switzerland.  I  declared 
that  I  could  not  bear  the  idea,  of  travelling  further,  neither 
could  I  stay  longer  in  hot  Lyons,  but  must  go  to  the  mountains  ! 
It  was  a  polite,  educated  man  I  had  to  do  with  ;  with  the 
passport  in  his  hand  he  examined  me  as  to  time  and  place, 
when  I  had  been  at  the  different  places,  where  every  vise  was 
given,  and  soon  was  aware  that  nothing  could  hinder  my 
departure,  arranged  everything  in  the  best  way,  and  the 
following  day  I  could  start. 

In  the  evening  I  sat  with  a  comfortable  mind  at  the  opera, 
which  was  a  German  one  ;  a  company  from  Zurich  performed 
in  one  evening  FlotrVs  “  Stradella  ”  and  Weber’s  “  l')er 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


278 

Freischutz.”  There  was  no  difficulty  about  getting  through 
both,  for  we  only  got  the  music  of  “  Der  Freischutz,”  the  dia¬ 
logue  was  omitted;  they  thought,  I  suppose,  that  the  French’ 
men  would  not  understand  it ;  but  it  seemed  very  funny, 
immediately  after  Caspar’s  drinking-song,  to  see  Max  seize 
his  hat,  nod,  and  go  out ;  while  Caspar  sang  triumphantly  as 
if  he  were  sure  of  the  game  only  by  that  song. 

I  reached  Switzerland,  and  here  also  the  heat  was  oppies<v- 
ive  ;  the  snow  at  “  The  Virgin  ”  on  Mont  Blanc  itself  was 
less  than  it  had  been  for  many  years ;  long,  black  stripes  were 
to  be  seen  in  the  rocks ;  but  here  the  air  was  more  serene,  and 
in  the  evening  there  was  more  coolness.  I  went  immediately 
to  Vevey  ;  here,  on  the  lake-side,  with  Savoy’s  snow-covered 
mountains,  it  was  a  blessing  to  breathe  and  live  !  Like  red 
stars  upon  the  black,  rocky  ground,  the  great  fires,  which  the 
shepherds  and  charcoal-burners  lighted  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  sea,  shone  in  the  evening.  I  visited  Chillon  again. 
Byron’s  name,  which  he  himself  had  carved  on  the  pillar,  had 
since  the  last  time  I  was  here,  been  molested,  —  somebody 
had  tried  to  efface  it  by  scratching  over  it.  An  Englishman 
had  done  it,  but  he  was  disturbed  ;  even  if  he  had  succeeded 
in  erasing  the  name  of  Byron  here,  in  the  world  it  would  not 
have  been  erased.  Two  new  names  were  added,  those  of  Vic¬ 
tor  Hugo  and  Robert  Peel. 

In  Freiburg  I  saw  the  most  bold,  the  most  grand  suspension- 
bridge  I  ever  have  seen  ;  it  hovered  high  in  the  air  over  val¬ 
ley  and  river,  and  swung  under  the  weight  of  heavy  wagons. 
In  the  Middle  Ages  such  a  bridge  would  have  belonged  to  the 
world  of  wonders  ;  science  has  brought  our  time  into  a  region 
which  before  was  supernatural. 

At  last  we  reached  Berne,  where  Baggesen  lived  lo  long  a 
time,  married  his  wife,  and  spent  happy  days.  Just  as  he  saw 
them,  so  now  also  the  Alps  glistened  with  the  same  color  of 
fire  when  the  sun  set.  I  spent  a  few  days  here  and  at  Inter¬ 
laken.  I  made  trips  to  Lauterbrunnen  and  Grindelwald  ;  the 
lefreshing  misty  spray  that  was  carried  by  the  wind  from  the 
waterfall  of  Staubbach,  the  chilly  air  in  the  caverns  of  Grin- 
delwald’s  glaciers,  made  it  paradisiacal  after  my  travel  through 
j»urgitory. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


1  went  to  Basle,  and  from  there  by  railroad  through  Franc* 
to  Strasbourg.  Steam  navigation  on  the  Rhine  commenced 
here.  The  air  lay  heavily  and  warmly  over  the  river  ;  we  sailed 
the  whole  day  long ;  the  steamer  was  at  last  crowded,  mostly 
with  Turners,  who  sang  and  made  merry;  they  were  ill  dis 
posed  toward  Denmark  and  all  that  was  Danish :  Christiai 
VIII.  had  issued  his  proclamation.  I  was  first  informed  of  it 
here  ;  it  was  not  pleasant  at  all  to  travel  through  Baden ;  no¬ 
body  knew  me,  and  I  would  not  have  anything  to  do  with 
anybody,  but  sat  sick  and  suffering  during  the  whole  tour. 

By  way  of  Frankfort  I  reached  dear  Weimar,  and  here  at 
Beaulieu’s  I  was  taken  care  of  and  got  repose.  I  spent  beau¬ 
tiful  days  at  the  summer  castle  of  Ettersburg,  where  I  was 
invited  by  the  hereditary  Grand  Duke.  In  Jena  I  worked 
together  with  Professor  Wolff  at  a  German  translation  of  sev¬ 
eral  of  my  lyric  poems  ;  but  my  health  was  very  delicate.  I, 
who  love  the  South  so  much,  was  obliged  now  to  acknowledge 
that  I  was  a  son  of  the  North,  whose  flesh,  blood,  and  nerves 
have  their  roots  in  snow  and  storms.  Slowly  I  returned  home¬ 
ward.  In  Hamburg  I  received  from  Christian  VIII.  the  order 
of  Dannebrog,  which,  as  was  said,  had  been  destined  for  me 
before  my  departure,  and  therefore  I  ought  to  get  it  before  I 
again  reached  my  native  country.  I  arrived  there  two  days 
after. 

In  Kiel  I  met  with  the  family  of  the  Landgrave  and  Prince 
Christian,  afterward  called  the  “  Prince  of  Denmark,”  and  his 
wife  ;  a  royal  steamer  was  sent  for  these  high  families,  and  I 
was  invited  to  have  the  pleasure  and  comfort  of  going  with 
them  ;  but  the  sea-voyage  was  very  disagreeable,  the  passage 
lasted  two  nights  and  days,  and  in  mist  and  storm  I  landed  at 
the  custom-house  of  Copenhagen. 

Hartmann’s  opera  of  “Little  Christine,”  for  which  I  had 
wiltten  the  text,  was  during  my  absence  brought  on  the  stag* 
and  met  with  great  success,  which  was  ascribed  to  me.  Th* 
music  was  appreciated,  as  it  deserved,  for  it  had  the  true  Dan¬ 
ish  flavor,  so  peculiar,  so  touching.  Heiberg  had  even  taken 
a  liking  to  it.  I  longed  to  hear  and  see  that  little  work,  and  it 
happened  that  the  very  same  day  I  arrived  home  “  The  Little 
Kirsten”  was  performed. 


28o 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


“  I  am  sure  you  will  enjoy  great  pleasure,”  said  Hartmann. 
u  People  are  very  well  satisfied  both  with  music  and  text !  ’’ 
I  entered  the  theatre,  and  was  noticed  ;  I  'perceived  this,  and 
when  “  Li:tle  Christine  ”  was  finished  there  was  applause, 
but  also  much  hissing. 

“  That  never  happened  before  !  ”  said  Hartmann  ;  “  I  do  not 
understand  it !  ” 

“  But  I  do,”  answered  I.  “  Do  not  be  vexed,  it  does  not 
concern  you  ;  my  countrymen,  who  saw  that  I  had  returned 
home,  wished  to  give  me  a  greeting !  ” 

I  was  still  suffering  in  health,  and  could  not  overcome  the 
effects  of  my  summer  sojourn  in  the  South  ;  only  the  refresh¬ 
ing  winter  coolness  kept  me  up ;  I  was  in  a  nervous,  weak 
state,  while  my  soul  on  the  contrary  was  very  active.  X 
finished  at  that  time  the  poem  “  Ahasuerus.” 

H.  C.  Orsted,  to  whom  in  recent  years  I  had  read  all  1 
wrote,  acquired  more  and  more  influence  over  me  by  his  lively 
sympathy  and  his  spiritual  judgment.  As  powerfully  as  his 
heart  beat  for  the  beautiful  and  good,  so  were  his  thoughts 
always  searching  in  it  indefatigably  for  the  truth.  One  day  I 
brought  him  a  Danish  translation  I  had  made  of  Byron’s 
i  Darkness.”  I  had  been  captivated  by  the  grand,  fantastic 
picture  which  the  poet  here  has  given,  and  was  therefore  as¬ 
tonished  to  hear  Orsted  declare  it  a  total  failure,  because  it 
was  untrue  all  through,  one  addition  in  it  more  foolish  than 
another.  Orsted  proved  it,  and  I  understood  and  acknowl¬ 
edge  the  truth  of  the  words  he  spoke. 

“  A  poet  may  think  if  he  pleases,”  said  he,  “  that  the  sun 
disappeared  from  heaven,  but  he  must  know  that  quite  othei 
results  would  follow  than  that  of  darkness  and  coldness  ;  those 
events  are  only  crack-brained  fantasies.”  And  I  felt  the 
truth  in  it  and  I  accepted  already  then  the  truths  which  in  his 
work,  “  Spirit  in  Nature,”  he  expresses  for  the  poets  of  his  age. 
As  representatives  of  the  advanced  knowledge  of  the  day,  they 
ought  to  draw  their  images  and  expressions  from  science  and 
not  from  a  by  gone  poetical  armory  ;  but  the  poet,  in  picturing 
i  past  time,  employs  those  representations  and  ideas  of  the 
world  which  would  be  familiar  to  the  characters  represented 
The  true  and  right  thought,  which  Orsted  afterward  ex¬ 
pressed  so  clearly  in  his  work  was  to  my  great  astonishment 


m 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


28l 


not  understood  even  by  Mynster.  One  may  find  several 
thoughtful  treatises  in  the  work  which  he  then  read  to  me  ; 
when  he  had  finished  reading,  we  talked  of  it,  and  with  his 
modesty  he  sometimes  listened  to  an  objection  from  me  ;  the 
only  one  I  made  was,  that  the  dialogue  form,  which  reminds 
one  of  Campe’s  “  Robinson/’  had  now  grown  obsolete  ;  that 
this  form  was  used  here,  where  there  was  no  occasion  for  char 
acter-painting,  merely  the  names  of  the  speakers  were  requiredj 
and  that  without  these  the  whole  might  be  quite  as  clearly 
understood. 

“You  are  perhaps  right,”  said  he,  with  all  his  amiable¬ 
ness  ;  “  but  I  cannot  immediately  decide  to  alter  that  which 
for  years  has  been  presented  to  me  in  this  form,  but  I  will  reflect 
upon  your  words  and  think  of  it  when  [  write  something  more.” 

There  was  a  fountain  of  knowledge,  experience,  and  pru¬ 
dence  which  flowed  forth  from  him  ;  he  also  possessed  a  lovely 
nature,  something  innocent  and  unconscious  like  the  child  ; 
a  rare  nature  revealing  the  stamp  of  deity,  and  to  this  must 
be  added  his  deep  religiousness  ;  through  the  glass  of  science 
he  saw  that  greatness  of  God  which  it  is  the  beauty  of  Chris¬ 
tianity  to  acknowledge  even  with  the  eyes  shut.  We  talked 
often  of  the  religious  truths  so  profound  and  blessed  ;  we  pe¬ 
rused  together  the  first  book  of  the  Pentateuch,  and  I  heard 
the  childishly  religious  man,  the  developed  thinker,  expound¬ 
ing  the  myths  of  old  ages,  and  the  traditions  of  the  creation 
of  the  world.  I  always  turned  away  clear  in  thought  and  rich 
in  mind  from  the  lovely  and  excellent  Orsted,  and  in  the  most 
heavy  hours  of  misjudgment  and  discouragement  he  was,  as  I 
must  repeat,  the  one  that  sustained  me  and  promised  me  bet¬ 
ter  days. 

One  day  as  I  left  him  with  a  suffering  heart,  occasioned  by 
the  injustice  and  hardness  inflicted  upon  me  from  with¬ 
out,  the  old  gentleman  could  not  go  to  rest  until,  late  in  the 
evening,  he  had  sought  me  in  my  home,  and  once  more  ex¬ 
pressed  to  me  his  sympathy  and  consolation.  That  touched  me 
so  deeply  that  I  forgot  all  my  sorrow  and  deep  feelings,  and 
shed  tears  of  thankfulness  for  his  great  kindness  ;  I  again 
gained  strength  and  courage  for  poetry  and  work. 

By  my  “  collected  works,”  and  by  the  different  editions  of  my 
single  writings,  I  became  more  and  more  known  in  Germany, 


282 


THE  STORY  OF  MV  LIFE. 


and  my  works  met  with  great  favor ;  the  stories,  ind  “  The 
Picture-book  without  Pictures  ”  were  most  read  ;  the  first 
even  found  imitators.  Many  books  and  poems  were  sent  me 
with  kind  and  touching  words.  I  received  from  Germany 
one :  “  With  affectionate  greetings  from  German  children  to 
the  dear  friend  of  children  in  Denmark,  H.  C.  Andersen.” 

In  the  course  of  the  year  several  of  my  writings,  such  as 
“  The  Bazaar,”  “  Wonder  Stories,”  and  “  The  Picture-book 
without  Pictures,”  were  published  in  England,  and  were  there 
received  by  the  public  and  the  critics  in  the  same  kind  way 
as  “  The  Improvisatore  ”  before.  I  received  letters  from 
many  unknown  friends  of  both  sexes,  whom  I  there  had  won. 
King  Christian  VIII.  received  my  works,  richly  bound,  from 
the  well-known  London  book-seller,  Richard  Bentley.  One  of 
our  men  of  note  told  me  that  the  King  on  that  occasion  ex¬ 
pressed  his  joy  at  the  reception  I  was  getting,  but  also  his 
astonishment  at  my  being  so  often  attacked  and  depreciated 
at  home  while  abroad  I  was  fully  acknowledged.  The  kind¬ 
ness  the  King  felt  for  me  became  greater  when  he  read  my  Life. 

“  Now  for  the  first  time  I  know  you  !  ”  said  he  kindly  to 
me,  as  I  entered  the  presence-chamber  in  order  to  bring  him 
my  latest  book.  “  I  see  you  very  seldom  !  ”  continued  he  ; 
“  we  must  oftener  have  a  little  talk  together !  ” 

“  That  depends  on  your  Majesty !  ”  answered  I. 

“  Yes,  yes,  you  are  right !  ”  answered  he,  and  now  he  ex¬ 
pressed  his  joy  at  my  reception  in  Germany,  and  especially  in 
England  ;  spoke  of  the  story  of  my  life,  which  he  had  under¬ 
stood  clearly,  and  before  we  separated  he  asked  me,  “  Where 
do  you  dine  to-morrow  ?  ” 

“  At  a  restaurant !  ”  answered  I. 

“  Then  come  rather  to  us  !  dine  with  me  and  my  wife :  we 
dine  at  four  o’clock  !  ” 

I  had,  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  received  from  the  Prin^ 
cess  of  Prussia  a  beautiful  album,  in  which  were  several  inter¬ 
esting  autographs  ;  their  Majesties  looked  through  it,  and 
when  I  received  it  back  again  King  Christian  VIII.  had  writ¬ 
ten  wTith  his  own  hand  the  significant  words :  “  To  have 
acquired  an  honorable  place  by  means  of  well-applied  talent 
is  better  than  favor  and  gift.  Let  these  lines  recall  to  you 
your  affectionate  Christian  R.” 


THE  STORY  OF  \1Y  LIFE .  28 3 

lc  was  dated  the  second  of  April  ;  the  King  knew  that  that* 
was  my  birthday.  Queen  Caroline  Amelia  also  had  written 
honorable  and  dear  words  ;  no  gifts  could  have  rejoiced  me 
more  than  such  a  treasure  in  spirit  c.nd  word. 

One  day  the  King  asked  whether  I  should  not  also  see 
England.  I  answered  yes,  that  I  intended  to  go  there  the 
coining  summer.  “You  must  have  some  money  from  me!” 
said  his  Majesty.  I  thanked  him  and  said,  — 

“I  have  no  need  of  it !  I  have  eight  hundred  rix-dollars 
from  the  German  edition  of  my  writings,  and  this  money  I 
shall  spend  !  ” 

“  But,”  said  the  King  with  a  smile,  “  you  represent  now 
the  Danish  literature  in  England,  and  you  should  therefore 
live  a  little  more  comfortably !  ” 

“  That  I  also  expect  to  do,  and  when  I  have  spent  my 
money  I  shall  return  home  !  ” 

“  You  must  write  directly  to  me  what  you  want !  ”  said  the 
King. 

“  O  no,  your  Majesty,  I  have  no  need  for  it  now  ;  another 
time  I  should  perhaps  be  more  in  want  of  your  Majesty’s 
favor  ;  now  I  must  not  make  use  of  it ;  it  is  not  right  always 
to  be  importunate,  —  it  is  so  unpleasant  for  me  to  speak  about 
money.  But  if  I  might  dare  write  to  your  Majesty  without 
asking  for  anything;  write,  not  as  to  the  King  —  for  then  it 
would  only  be  a  letter  of  ceremony  ;  if  I  might  dare  write  to 
one  who  is  truly  dear  to  me  !  ”  The  King  granted  my  wish 
and  seemed  to  be  pleased  with  the  manner  in  which  I  met 
nis  favor. 

In  the  middle  of  May,  1847,  I  set  out  by  land  from  Copen¬ 
hagen.  It  was  in  the  beautiful  spring-time  ;  I  saw  the  stork 
'dying  from  its  nest  with  wings  stretched  out.  Whitsuntide 
*as  spent  at  old  Glorup  ;  I  witnessed  at  Odense  the  marks' 
men’s  celebration,  which  was  one  of  the  great  days  of  my 
boyhood.  A  parcel  of  boys  came,  just  as  when  I  was  a  lit' 
tie  fellow,  carrying  the  target  riddled  with  shot ;  the  whole 
crowd  waved  green  branches,  like  the  wood  of  Birnam  coming 
.0  Dunsinane  ;  the  same  frolic,  the  same  thronging  —  but  how 
different  it  seemed  to  me  now.  A  poor  crack-brained  young 
fellow  outside  my  windows  made  a  deep  impression  on  me ; 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  J /FE 


284 

he  had  nobly  formed  features  and  lustrous  eyes,  but  theic 
was  something  troubled  in  his  whole  person,  and  the  beya 
made  sport  of  him  and  chased  him.  I  thought  of  myself,  of 
my  boyhood,  of  my  insane  grandfather.  If  I  had  remained 
in  Odense,  and  had  been  put  to  an  apprenticeship  there  ,  if 
the  powers  of  fancy,  which  I  then  possessed  in  high  degree, 
had  been  blunted  by  time  and  circumstances,  or  if  I  had  not 
learned  to  become  fused  with  the  society  that  surrounded  me, 
how  had  I  then  perhaps  been  looked  upon  ?  I  don’t  know, 
but  the  sight  of  that  unhappy  fool  chased  about  outside  my 
windows  made  my  heart  beat  violently  ;  my  thoughts  and 
thanksgiving  flew  up  to  God  for  all  his  mercy  and  love  to  me. 

I  travelled  by  the  way  of  Hamburg,  where  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  the  author  Glaszbrenner  and  his  wife,  the 
excellent  actress  Peroni-Glaszbrenner,  who  is  so  full  of  genius. 
A  Copenhagen  newspaper  has  said  that  the  gay  satirist  had 
weakened  my  reputation  as  a  romancer ;  I  do  not  know  any¬ 
thing  about  it,  but  I  have  a  poem  from  him  by  which  I  can 
see  that  the  man  is  not  so  much  against  me  ! 

After  a  visit  with  dear  friends  at  Oldenburg,  I  proceeded  to 
Holland.  The  diligence  rolled  us  along  over  the  brick-laid 
road,  smooth  and  clean  as  the  floor  of  a  dairy.  Houses  and 
towns  were  the  picture  of  wealth  and  cleanliness.  In  the 
fortress-town  of  Deventer  it  was-market  day :  there  was  a 
throng  of  people  in  spruce  dresses ;  in  the  market-place 
stood  booths,  like  those  I  had  seen  in  former  days  on  the 
Deer-park  hill  at  Copenhagen  ;  the  chiming  of  belis  sounded 
from  the  church-towers,  the  Dutch  flag  waved. 

From  Utrecht  I  came  by  the  railway  in  an  hour  to  Amster¬ 
dam,  “  where,  like  amphibious  creatures,  they  live  half  on 
land,  half  in  water  !  ”  But  it  is  not  quite  so  bad  as  that,  and 
it  did  not  at  all  put  me  in  m.nd  of  Venice,  the  beaver-citv 
with  the  dead  palaces.  The  first  man  I  met  in  the  street  and 
asked  the  way,  answered  me  so  intelligibly  that  I  thought  the 
Dutch  language  must  be  very  easy  to  understand  !  but  it  waa 
Danish  that  he  spoke  ;  he  was  a  French  journevman  hair- 
cutter,  who  had  been  a  long  while  with  the  hair-dressei 
Causse  in  Copenhagen,  had  learnt  a  little  Danish,  recognized 
me,  and  when  I  accosted  him  in  French  answered  me  ir. 
Danish  as  well  as  he  could. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


285 


Shade  trees  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  canals  ;  variegated 
clumsy  tug-boats,  with  man  and  wife  and  the  whole  family 
on  board,  glided  softly  by  ;  the  wife  stood  at  the  rudder,  the 
husband  sat  smoking  his  long  pipe.  It  was  striking  to  see 
in  the  crowded  street  a  couple  of  small  boys,  whose  clothes 
were  in  two  colors  ;  half  the  back  of  the  coat  was  black,  the 
other  half  red  ;  the  pantaloons  also,  each  leg  had  its  color. 
Now  came  by  several  small  girls,  who  were  also  dressed  in 
different  colors,  quite  as  convicts  are  distinguished  at  home. 
I  asked  what  it  signified,  and  I  was  told  that  they  were 
orphan  children,  and  were  dressed  here  in  that  way. 

In  the  theatres  the  plays  were  in  French  ;  the  National 
Theatre  was  closed  during  my  stay  here,  which  was  very 
unfortunate,  for  otherwise  I  might  have  seen  true  Dutch 
customs  :  they  smoke  during  the  whole  representation,  and 
Jan,  as  almost  all  waiters  in  Holland  are  called,  is  going 
about,  lights  the  pipes  and  brings  tea,  which  is  drunk  out  of 
great  saucers  ;  the  comedy  is  meanwhile  still  going  on,  the 
verses  are  sung,  and  tobacco-pipes  are  smoking,  so  that  the 
smoke  spreads  out  over  the  spectators  and  the  stage.  I 
heard  this  from  different  Dutchmen,  and  I  dare  believe  that 
it  was  not  exaggeration. 

My  first  introduction  in  Amsterdam  was  in  a  book-store, 
where  I  went  to  buy  a  book  of  Dutch  and  Flemish  poems. 
The  man  I  spoke  with  looked  in  surprise  at  me,  made  a 
short  apology,  and  ran  away.  I  did  not  know  what  it  could 
mean,  and  was  about  going  when  two  men  came  out  from  the 
next  room,  who  also  stared  at  me,  and  one  of  them  asked  if  I 
were  not  the  Danish  poet  Andersen!  They  showed  me  my 
portrait,  that  hung  in  the  room ;  it  was  by  that  they  had 
known  me  ;  the  Dutch  newspapers  had  already  announced 
that  I  was  expected. 

A  Danish  gentleman,  Mr.  Nyegaard,  who  has  lived  many 
years  in  Holland,  and  is  called  there  Van  Nieweuhuis,  had 
previously  translated  into  Dutch  all  my  novels  ;  nor  long 
before  my  arrival  “  The  Story  of  my  Life  ”  and  several  of  the 
stories  (“Sprookjes  ”)  were  reproduced  and  published  in  Am¬ 
sterdam.  The  editor  of  De  Tijd,”  the  recently  deceased 
Van  der  Vliet,  had  with  great  kindness  made  mention  of  my 
literary  labors  ;  my  portrait  appeared  in  the  “  Weekly.” 


286 


THE  J TORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Thus  I  soon  heard  and  perceived  that  I  possessed  many 
friends  in  Holland.  H.  C.  Orsted  had  furnished  me  with  a 
letter  to  Professor  Frohlich  at  Amsterdam,  and  by  him  I  was 
introduced  to  the  well  known  Dutch  poet,  Van  Lennep,  the 
author  of  “  De  Roos  van  Dekama”  and  “  Haarlems  Ver- 
lossing,”  which  are  reckoned  among  the  most  excellent'  novels 
in  Dutch  literature.  In  Van  Lennep  I  learned  to  know  z 
handsome,  kind  man,  living  in  a  comfortable,  rich-looking 
house  ;  I  was  not  received  there  as  a  stranger,  but  as  a 
welcome  guest  in  the  family  ;  beautiful,  kind-looking  children 
gathered  about  me  :  they  knew  my  stories  ;  “  The  Red  Shoes  ” 
(“  De  Roode  Schoentjes  ”)  especially  made  a  deep  impression 
on  one  of  the  boys  ;  it  had  so  strangely  affected  him  that  he 
stood  quite  silently  for  a  long  time  and  gazed  on  me  ;  afterward 
he  showed  me  the  book  where  the  storv  was,  and  there  was  a 
picture  where  the  shoes  were  painted  red,  while  the  rest  of 
the  picture  was  uncolored.  The  oldest  daughter,  Sara,  a 
very  amiable  and  lively  girl,  asked  me  immediately  whether 
the  ladies  of  Copenhagen  were  handsome,  and  I  answered 
her,  “  Yes,  they  are  like  the  Dutch  ladies  !  ”  She  liked  to 
hear  me  speak  Danish,  and  I  wrote  down  for  her  a  few  words 
of  those  which  pleased  her  most.  At  the  dinner-table  Van 
Lennep  asked  me  if  I  thought  I  could  read  Dutch,  and  then 
he  presented  me  with  a  written  sheet.  It  was  a  poem  of 
his  to  me,  and  he  read  it  aloud  to  the  whole  circle.  I  be¬ 
lieve  it  is  printed  in  “  De  Tijd.” 

From  Amsterdam  I  went  to  Harlem  by  the  railway.  There 
was  a  place  where  we  passed  over  a  kind  of  bank  between 
the  open  North  Sea  and  the  sea  of  Harlem,  and  I  wondered 
at  the  grand  enterprise  of  pumping  out  a  lake,  which  had 
already  fallen  considerably.  Harlem’s  mighty  organ,  the 
greatest  in  the  world,  was  just  sounding  its  eight  thousand 
metal  pipes  beneath  the  beautiful  timber  vault  when  I  entered 
the  hall. 

The  language  sounded  very  queerly,  half  Danish,  half  Ger¬ 
man,  and  I  saw  the  inscription  on  several  houses  :  “  Hier  gaat 
mair  nit  porren  !  ”  —  “  Here  they  went  out  to  rouse  the  peo* 
pie.”  The  chimes  were  always  heard  from  the  church  towers: 
the  whole  country  seemed  to  me  a  great  English  park. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


28^ 

* 

In  company  with  Professor  Schlegel  and  his  wife,  and  Pro¬ 
fessor  Geel,  I  set  out  to  see  the  curiosities  of  Leyden,  among 
others  the  mound  raised  by  the  Anglo-Saxons,  when  those 
under  Hengist  and  Horsa  went  over  to  England.  In  the  wait 
ing-room  of  the  railroad  depot  hung  many  pictures  and  pla¬ 
cards  ;  the  largest  of  those  was  one  which  announced  Van 
der  Vliet’s  “  De  Tijd  ”  ;  my  name  and  portrait  were  accident¬ 
ally  there  ;  people  became  aware  of  the  picture  and  of  me  ;  I 
felt  quite  confused,  and  hastened  to  get  into  a  carriage.  I 
had  bought  a  ticket  for  the  Hague,  and  I  read  now  on  the 
paper  they  had  given  me,  “  ’SGravenhage,”  the  Dutch  name 
of  the  city  ;  I  did  not  know  it ;  the  train  started,  and  I  expected 
to  come  to  quite  another  place  than  the  one  I  meant.  The 
first  man  I  discovered  from  my  window  at  the  Hague  in  the 
street  was  an  acquaintance,  a  friend  from  Rome,  the  Dutch 
composer  Verhulst,  whom  I  was  said  to  resemble,  if  not  in 
feature,  yet  in  gait  and  movement.  I  nodded  to  him,  he  knew 
me,  but  did  not  dream  of  my  being  at  the  Hague.  An  hour 
after,  going  out  to  take  a  walk  in  the  foreign  city,  the  first  one 
I  met  again  was  Verhulst  ;  what  a  welcome  he  gave  me  !  We 
talked  of  Rome,  of  Copenhagen  ;  I  had  to  tell  him  of  Hart¬ 
mann  and  Gade,  whose  music  Verhulst  knew.  He  praised 
Denmark  because  it  had  a  Danish  opera.  I  believe  that  the 
Dutch  only  have  French  and  Italian  music.  I  accompanied 
him  to  his  home  somewhat  out  of  the  city ;  from  the  windows 
we  looked  on  fresh,  green  meadows  and  fields,  so  truly  Dutch, 
and  the  chiming  bells  from  the  neighboring  churches  re¬ 
sounded  at  the  same  time  ;  a  flock  of  storks  passed  hy  in 
flight,  and  here  is  their  home  ;  even  the  coat  of  arms  of  the 
Hague  is  a  stork. 

I  did  not  know  Van  der  Vliet  personally,  but  he  had 
several  times  written  to  me,  sent  me  translations  and  notices 
of  my  writings.  I  entered  his  room  ;  he  was  a  young,  kind- 
hearted  man,  appeared  to  be  a  true  child  of  nature,  who 
warmly  applauded  all  that  I  had  written,  and  was  surprised  at 
my  unexpected  visit,  —  almost  overwhelmed  by  astonishment. 
He  had  expected  to  be  informed  of  my  arrival,  and  had 
planned  to  have  me  stay  with  him.  He  called  his  young  wife  ; 
the  was  even  as  young  and  kind  as  he,  but  she  only  spoke 


288 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Dutch  ;  yet  when  we  did  not  understand  each  other  we  nodded 
kindly  and  pressed  each  other’s  hands.  The  good  people  d.d 
not  know  all  the  good  they  were  doing  me.  Their  only  child, 
still  a  little  boy,  the  father  said,  was  named  after  me,  and  after 
the  poor  fiddler,  “Christian.”  The  extraordinary  happiness 
my  presence  seemed  to  cause  them  touched  me  ;  it  was  a  lit¬ 
tle  home  full  of  love.  As  I,  however,  was  lo  stay  but  a  few 
days  at  the  Hague,  and  as  their  house  lay  a  little  out  of  the 
way,  I  preferred  to  stay  at  the  hotel,  which  was  situated  in  the 
midst  of  the  city.  The  husband  and  wife  accompanied  me  to 
my  door  in  order  that  we  might  so  much  longer  be  together. 

How  much  pleasure  it  gives  one  in  a  foreign  country  to 
meet  with  kindness  like  this.  My  arrival  was  to  them  like  a 
happy  greeting,  and  our  conversation  was  kept  up  in  a  lively 
fashion,  with  laughing  and  talking. 

We  separated,  and  on  the  staircase  of  the  hotel  where  I 
was  staying  a  gentleman  dressed  in  black  stood  before  me  ; 
he  told  me  his  name  ;  I  knew  him,  but  how  different  this  was 
from  the  laughter  I  just  had  separated  from.  Tears  rushed 
from  the  gentleman’s  eyes  ;  it  was  Mr  Hensel,  the  brother-in- 
law  of  Mendelssohn  Bartholdy.  He  had  just  arrived  from 
Berlin.  The  physicians  desired  him  to  travel,  in  order  to  turn 
away  his  thoughts  from  his  grief  which  seemed  to  crush  him. 
His  excellent,  highly  gifted  wife,  Mendelssohn’s  sister,  who  so 
much  resembled  her  brother,  had  suddenly  died  :  she  was  a 
true  musical  genius,  and  possessed  in  her  exterior  kindred 
features  and  expressions.  At  Berlin  I  had  often  met  her  and 
her  husband  in  society  ;  she  was  the  life  of  the  company ; 
she  had  her  brother’s  spirit  and  boldness,  and  played  like  him 
with  a  dexterity  and  expression  which  charmed  every  one.  Not 
long  before  she  had  left  the  dinner-table  fresh  and  gay,  and 
had  retired  to  a  bower,  when  she  was  heard  to  utter  a  cry  and 
at  the  same  time  she  expired.  Her  husband,  who  is  a  re¬ 
nowned  portrait-painter,  had  painted  her  face  as  she  looked  in 
death  ;  he  had  brought  his  work  with  him,  and  had  placed 
it  upon  the  table  in  his  room.  I,  who  came  from  joy  and 
the  joyous,  was  affected  at  seeing  that  strong  man  so  deeply 
troubled  and  in  tears.  The  year  after,  as  we  now  know 
Mendelssohn  died  even  as  suddenly,  and  followed  his  intellect 
ual  and  excellent  sister. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIb'E. 


289 

I  had  been  four  days  at  the  Hague ;  it  was  Sunday,  and  I 
Intended  to  go  to  the  French  opera,  when  my  friends  besought 
me  to  give  that  up,  and  to  visit  some  company  that  had 
gathered  in  Hotel  de  FEurope.  "  There  must  be  a  ball  here 
to-night  !  ”  said  I,  mounting  the  staircase.  “  What’s  the  mat 
ter  ?  ”  I  asked  ;  “  it  looks  very  solemn  !  ”  My  conductoi 
smiled  and  answered  :  “  There  is  a  feast  going  on  !  ”  I  en¬ 
tered  th:  great  saloon  and  was  astonished  at  the  large  as¬ 
sembly. 

“  Here,”  they  said,  “  are  some  of  your  Dutch  friends,  who 
have  the  pleasure  of  being  together  with  you  this  evening !  ” 
During  my  short  stay  at  the  Hague,  letters  had  been  sent 
round  in  the  country  to  the  friends  of  my  Muse,  with  whom 
Van  der  Vliet  and  others  had  arranged  that  they  should  be 
informed  when  I  would  accept  their  invitation.  Even  far 
up  from  the  Zuyder  Sea,  the  author  of  “Opuscules  de  Jeu- 
nesse,’’  Van  Kneppelhout,  a  rich  man,  came  only  for  my  sake, 
and  in  spite  of  the  long  journey.  I  found  here  many  artists, 
as  well  literary  celebrities  as  painters  and  actors.  During 
the  repast,  at  the  large  table  adorned  with  flowers,  toasts  were 
given  and  speeches  delivered.  I  was  especially  affected  by  a 
toast  of  Van  der  Vliet :  “  To  the  elder  Collin  at  Copenhagen  : 
that  noble  man  who  had  adopted  Andersen  as  a  son.”  “Two 
kings,”  said  he,  and  then  turned  himself  toward  me,  “  King 
Christian  VIII.  and  Frederick  William  of  Prussia,  have  each 
given  you  an  order  ;  when  these  shall  be  laid  upon  your  cof¬ 
fin,  then  may  God  grant  you  for  your  pious  stories  the  most 
beautiful  order  of  all,  the  immortal  Crown  of  Life.”  One 
spoke  of  Holland’s  and  Denmark’s  connection  on  account  of 
their  language  and  history.  One  of  the  painters,  who  had 
painted  beautiful  pictures  for  my  “  Picture-book,”  proposed 
my  health  as  an  artist.  Kneppelhout  spoke  in  French  of  free¬ 
dom  of  form  and  fancy.  Songs  were  sung,  humorous  poemr: 
recited,  and  as  I  had  no  notion  of  Dutch  comedies  and 
tragedies,  the  renowned  tragedian  of  the  Hague,  Mr.  Peeters, 
played  the  prison-scene  of  Schrawemwerth’s  “Tasso.”  I 
understood  not  a  word,  but  I  felt  the  truth  of  his  acting,  the 
mimicry  of  which  was  as  excellent  as  I  ever  had  seen  ;  it  w'jS 
as  if  the  artist  grew  pale  and  red  ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  powei 

19 


290 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  \ 


over  the  very  blood  in  his  cheeks  ;  the  whole  assembly  burst 
out  in  vociferous  acclamations.  Beautiful  songs  were  sung, 
and  especially  the  national  song,  “Wien  Neerlands  bloed!” 
stirred  me  by  its  melody  and  inspiration.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  notable  evenings  of  my  life.  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
expression  of  the  greatest  regard  I  have  met,  culminated  in 
Sweden  and  Holland.  God,  who  knows  our  hearts,  knows 
how  humble  mine  was.  It  is  a  blessing  to  be  able  to  weep 
for  very  thankfulness  and  joy. 

I  spent  the  next  day  in  the  open  air ;  Kneppelhout  carried 
me  out  “  in  Basch,”  where  there  was  promenading  and  music  , 
we  passed  by  beautiful  green  meadows,  over  idyllic  roads,  and 
by  rich  country-houses  ;  we  saw  Leyden  stretching  out  be¬ 
fore  us.  We  approached  it,  and  then  drove  to  the  village  of 
Scheveningen,  which  is  protected  from  the  North  Sea  by  high 
sand  dunes  and  banks.  Here  again  a  little  circle  of  friends 
at  the  table  d’hote  in  the  Bath  hotel  drank  toasts  to  art  and 
poetry,  to  Denmark  and  Holland.  Fishing-boats  were  lying 
along  the  shore,  the  music  sounded,  the  sea  rolled  ;  it  was 
very  homelike  this  beautiful  evening.  The  next  morning  as  I 
was  about  to  leave  the  Hague,  the  landlady  brought  me  a 
number  of  newspapers,  wherein  already  the  feast  given  me 
was  mentioned.  A  few  friends  accompanied  me  to  the  rail¬ 
way  station.  They  had  become  dear  to  me,  and  I  left  them 
sorrowfully,  uncertain  whether  we  should  ever  again  meet  in 
this  world. 

Rotterdam  was  for  me  the  first  really  alive  Dutch  city 
which  I  had  seen,  far  more  than  Amsterdam  was.  .  Many 
large  vessels  were  lying  in  the  broad  channels  ;  small  Dutch 
gayly  painted  yachts,  where  the  wife  stood  at  the  rudder,  —  ii 
not  with  slippers  and  spurs,  as  in  the  song  of  “The  Yeung 
Mr.  Pedersen,”  still  at  the  rudder,  and  the  good  husband  was 
lying  and  smoked  his  pipe.  All  seemed  to  be  commerce  and 
traffic. 

One  of  the  oldest  Dutch  steamboats,  a  true  steam-snail, 
the  Batavier,  started  the  next  morning  for  London,  and  1 
took  passage  in  it.  The  ship  was  heavily  laden,  and  high  up 
above  the  railing  big  baskets  were  piled  filled  with  cherries 
a  great  number  of  emigrants  for  America  were  deck  passen- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


29I 


gers.  The  children  played  gayly  about :  here  walked  a  Ger* 
man,  as  fat  as  Falstaff,  up  and  down  with  his  lean,  alieady 
almost  sea-sick  wife,  who  dreaded  the  moment  when  we 
should  leave  the  River  Maas  and  come  out  into  the  large 
North  Sea ;  her  dog  shivered  like  her,  although  he  was 
wrapped  up  in  a  blanket,  tied  with  great  loops.  The  tide 
was  falling,  and  it  was  eight  hours  before  we  reached  the 
North  Sea  ;  flat  Holland  seemed  to  sink  more  and  more  into 
the  grayish-yellow  sea,  and  at  sunset  I  went  to  bed. 

When  I  came  up  on  deck  in  the  morning  we  were  in  sight 
of  the  English  coast.  At  the  mouth  of  the  Thames  we  saw 
fishing-boats  by  thousands,  like  a  huge  flock  of  chickens,  or 
torn  pieces  of  paper,  or  a  great  market,  or  a  camp  with  tents. 
The  Thames  surely  proclaims  that  England  is  the  ruler  of  the 
sea ;  here  its  servants  fly  out,  whole  masses  of  innumerable 
ships ;  every  minute  there  come  as  couriers  steamboat  after 
steamboat,  —  the  courier  with  heavy  smoke-veil  in  his  hat, 
from  the  top  of  which  the  red  fire-flower  flashes.  # 

Swelling  like  swans,  one  great  sailing  ship  after  another 
passed  by  us  ;  we  saw  pleasure-yachts  with  rich,  young  gen¬ 
tlemen  :  vessel  followed  vessel ;  the  further  we  advanced  up 
the  Thames  the  more  the  crowd  increased.  I  had  begun  to 
count  how  many  steamers  we  should  meet,  but  I  grew  tired 
of  it.  At  Gravesend  the  Thames  appeared  as  if  we  were 
entering  a  smoking  marsh  on  fire,  but  it  was  only  the  steam 
of  steamships  and  smoke  of  chimneys  which  lay  before  us. 
A  threatening  thunder-storm  was  drawing  over  the  country; 
the  blue  lightning  flashed  toward  the  pitchy  black  sky  ;  a 
railway-train  passed  by,  its  steam  waved,  and  the  thunder-clap 
echoed  like  cannon. 

“  People  know  you  are  here  and  wish  to  bid  you  welcome !  ” 
said  a  young  Englishman  to  me  in  joke.  “Yes,’’  thought  I, 
(i  our  Lord  knows  it !  ” 

The  Thames  became,  one  could  not  believe  it  possible, 
still  more  a  confusion  of  steamboats,  rowing-boats,  sailing- 
vessels,  a  thronged  street ;  I  cculd  not  imagine  how  those 
masses  moved  among  eacii  other  without  striking  ;  the  tide 
was  going  down  ;  the  miry,  slimy  bottom  appeared  at  the 
banks  ;  I  thought  of  Quilp  in  Dickens’s  “  Old  Curiosity  Shop,” 
and  of  Marryat’s  descriptions  of  the  life  on  the  river. 


292 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


At  the  custom-house,  where  we  landed,  I  took  a  cab  and 
drove  and  drove,  thinking  that  I  never  should  come  to  an  end, 
through  that  endless  city.  The  crowd  was  greater  and  greater, 
carriages  after  carriages  in  two  streams  up  and  down  ;  all 
kind  of  vehicles  :  omnibuses  filled  within  and  without ;  large 
wagons,  that  ought  to  be  called  boxes,  advertising  by  placards 
pasted  on  them  ;  men  with  big  signs  on  poles,  which  they 
lifted  over  the  crowd,  and  on  which  one  could  read  one  thing 
or  another  that  was  to  be  seen  or  bought.  All  was  in  motion, 
as  if  half  London  was  stirring  from  one  part  of  the  city  to  the 
other.  Where  streets  crossed  each  other  there  was  an  ele¬ 
vated  place,  surrounded  with  great  stones,  where  people  rushed 
from  one  of  the  sidewalks  through  the  nearest  line  of  car¬ 
riages,  waiting  here  in  that  asylum  for  a  chance  to  get  through 
the  other  line  and  to  the  opposite  sidewalk. 

London,  the  city  of  cities !  Yes,  I  felt  immediately  that  it 
was  so,  and  I  learned  to  know  it  from  day  to  day  afterward. 
Here  is  Pari!  but  with  a  mightier  power ;  here  is  the  life  of 
Naples  but  not  its  bustle.  Omnibus  after  omnibus  passes, — 
they  say  that  there  are  four  thousand,  —  teams,  carts,  cabs, 
hansoms,  and  elegant  carriages  are  rattling,  training,  rolling, 
and  driving  away,  as  if  they  were  going  from  one  important 
event  in  the  city  to  another.  And  this  tide  is  always  moving  ! 
always  !  When  all  those  people  we  now  see  in  such  activity 
are  in  their  graves,  the  same  hurried  activity  will  .still  con¬ 
tinue  here,  the  same  waves  of  omnibuses,  cabs,  cars  :  the  men 
walking  with  signs  before  and  behind,  signs  on  poles,  signs 
on  coaches,  with  advertisements  of  balloons,  Bushmen,  Vaux- 
hall,  panoramas,  and  Jenny  Lind. 

I  reached  at  last  the  Hotel  de  Sablonibre  in  Leicester 
Square,  which  had  been  recommended  me  by  If.  C.  Orsted, 
and  got  a  room,  where  the  sun  shone  upon  my  bed  to  show 
me  that  there  also  may  be  sunshine  in  London  ;  it  was  a 
little  reddish-yellow,  as  if  reflected  through  the  glass  of  a  beer 
bottle ;  but  when  the  sun  had  set,  the  air  was  clear  and  the 
stars  sparkled  down  upon  the  streets,  radiant  with  gas-light, 
and  where  the  crowd  always  moved,  rushed,  or  quietly 
hummed.  Very  tired  I  fell  asleep,  not  yet  having  seen  anj 
acquaintance. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


2Q3 


I  had  arrived  here  without  any  letter  of  recommendation  ; 
the  only  one  at  home  whom  I  had  asked  for  one  was  a  marc 
of  high  rank,  who  had  English  connections,  through  whom  I 
might  be  able  to  get  a  glance  into  the  high  life  of  London,  but 
he  did  not  send  me  any. 

“You  need  no  letter  of  recommendation  here,”  said  our 
Danish  Ambassador,  Count  Reventlow,  upon  whom  I  made 
a  call  next  morning;  “you  are  known  and  recommended 
in  England  by  your  writings.  This  very  night  a  little  select 
party  is  given  by  Lord  Palmerston ;  I  will  write  to  Lady 
Palmerston  that  you  are  here,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  you 
will  get  an  invitation  !  ” 

A  few  hours  after  I  did  receive  one,  and  together  with 
Count  Reventlow  I  went  to  the  house  in  his  carriage.  The 
highest  nobility  of  England  was  gathered  here  :  ladies  in  the 
richest  toilets,  silk  and  lace,  sparkling  diamonds,  and  beautiful 
bouquets  of  flowers.  Lord  Palmerston  as  well  as  Lady  Palmer¬ 
ston  received  me  very  kindly  ;  and  when  the  young  Duke  of 
Weimar,  who  was  here  with  his  young  wife,  kindly  greeted 
me  and  introduced  me  to  the  Duchess  of  Suffolk,  who  I  be¬ 
lieve  spoke  very  civilly  of  my  “  Improvisatore,  —  “The  first 
book  on  Italy!”  as  she  was  pleased  to  express  herself,  —  I 
was  soon  surrounded  by  the  noble  ladies  of  England,  who  all 
knew  about  the  Danish  poet,  —  knew  “  The  Top  and  the  Ball,” 
“  The  Ugly  Duckling,”  etc.  Many  generous  words  were  said 
to  me.  I  seemed  to  be  no  longer  a  stranger.  The  Duke  of 
Cambridge  spoke  to  me  about  Christian  VIII.;  the  Prussian 
Ambassador,  Bunsen,  who  at  an  earlier  time  had  shown  the 
Danes  at  Rome  so  many  favors,  was  a  friend  of  Reventlow, 
and  met  me  very  kindly.  Many  presented  me  their  cards,  and 
most  of  them  offered  me  invitations.  “  You  have  to-night,”  said 
Count  Reventlow,  “  made  a  jump  into  high  life,  which  many 
would  have  required  years  to  come  into  !  Don’t  be  too  modest  ; 
here  one  must  advance  boldly  in  order  to  get  ahead  !  ”  and 
now  with  that  gentleman’s  quick  humor  he  continued  in  Dan¬ 
ish,  which  was  not  understood  by  any  of  the  company,  “  To¬ 
morrow  we  will  look  over  the  cards  and  choose  the  best  one  ! 
Now  you  have  talked  quite  enough  witt  him  ;  there  you  see 
another,  with  whom  it  will  be  more  advantage  to  you  to  be 


294 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


acquainted  ;  at  this  gecJeman’s  house  you  will  find  a  good 
table  ;  with  that,  very  select  society !  ”  and  so  he  rattled  on. 
At  last  I  was  so  weary  cf  moving  over  the  polished  floor,  of 
the  mental  exercise  of  clambering  over  different  tongues,  that 
I  did  not  know  what  I  was  about ;  the  heat  was  so  exhaust¬ 
ing  that  I  was  obliged  to  break  away  and  go  out  on  the  corri¬ 
dor,  to  draw  breath  and  to  get  a  little  rest,  at  least  to  lean  up 
against  the  balustrade.  As  that  evening  so  were  all  the 
others  for  three  whole  weeks  ;  it  was  in  the  season,  the  warm 
time  of  summer  society,  which  we  only  know  in  the  winter. 
I  was  invited  every  day  out  to  dinner,  for  the  evening,  and 
after  that  to  balls  in  the  night ;  there  was  a  crowd  every¬ 
where  that  I  went,  in  the  saloons  and  on  the  staircases,  and 
as  I  was  engaged  for  a  week  ahead,  I  was  obliged  also  to  go 
out  to  breakfast.  I  could  not  stand  it  any  longer  ;  it  was 
just  one  long  night  and  day  for  almost  three  weeks  ;  I  have 
therefore  been  able  to  keep  only  a  few  moments  and  scattered 
incidents  of  that  time  clearly  in  my  memory.  Almost  every¬ 
where  the  same  principal  figures  were  presented,  varying  in 
gold,  satin,  laces,  and  flowers.  In  the  decoration  of  rooms 
roses  were  especially  employed.  Windows,  tables,  staircases, 
and  niches  were  covered  with  roses  ;  they  were  always  placed 
in  water,  tither  in  glasses,  cups,  or  vases,  but  without  looking 
closely  the  vessels  could  not  be  perceived  ;  to  the  eye  they 
formed  entire  carpets,  fragrant  and  fresh. 

I  lived,  as  I  have  mentioned,  at  Leicester  Square,  m  the 
Hotel  de  Sablonibre,  where  also  H.  C.  Orsted  had  lived,  and 
who  had  recommended  it  to  me  ;  but  that  lodging,  said  Count 
Reventlow,  was  not  fashionable  enough,  and  here  all  must 
follow  the  fashion  ;  he  advised  me  not  to  say  that  I  lived  at 
Leicester  Square  ;  that  would  be,  he  said,  as  if  a  stranger  in 
Copenhagen  were  to  mention  in  a  fashionable  society,  “I  live 
in  Peter  Madsen’s  Lane  I  was  to  give  out  that  I  lived  with 
him.  And  yet  I  lived  near  by  Piccadilly,  in  a  large  square 
where  the  marble  statue  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester  stood  among 
green  trees  outside  my  v  indows  ;  six  or  eight  years  ago  it  had 
been  fashionable  to  live  here,  but  now  it  was  not  so. 

The  Chevalier  Bunsen,  Count  Reventlow,  and  several  of  the 
ambassadors  called  on  me  here,  but  that  was  according  tc 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


295 

etiquelte.  In  England  every  one  must  be  obedient  to  eti¬ 
quette  ;  even  the  Queen  is  dependent  on  it  at  her  own  house. 
They  told  me  that  one  day,  when  taking  a  walk  out  in  one  of 
the  splendid  parks,  and  wishing  perhaps  to  stay  there  a  little 
longer,  she  was  obliged  to  return  home  because  the  dinner- 
hour  was  precisely  eight  o’clock ;  otherwise  all  England  would 
have  found  fault  with  her.  In  this  land  of  freedom  one  almost 
dies  by  etiquette  ;  but  that  is  not  worth  mentioning  where  so 
much  that  is  excellent  is  to  be  found.  Here  we  find  a  nation, 
which  in  our  time,  perhaps,  is  the  only  religious  one  ;  here  is 
an  esteem  for  good  manners,  here  is  morality ;  we  must  not 
dwell  upon  single  excrescences  and  offshoots,  which  aWays 
are  to  be  found  in  a  great  city.  London  is  the  city  of  polite¬ 
ness,  and  the  police  themselves  set  good  examples.  In  the 
streets  you  need  only  address  one  of  the  policemen,  and  he 
will  immediately  accompany  and  direct  you  ;  in  the  stores  you 
will  always  be  answered  in  the  kindest  way.  As  to  London’s 
heavy. air  and  coal-smoke,  it  has  been  exaggerated  ;  it  certainly 
is  the  case  in  some  of  its  densely  populated  old  quarters,  but 
its  most  growing  part  is  airy  and  free,  as  much  so  as  in  Paris. 
I  have  seen  in  London  many  beautiful  sunny  days  and  many 
star-light  nights. 

It  is,  moreover,  very  difficult  for  a  foreigner  to  give  a  true 
and  faithful  picture  of  a  country  and  a  city  after  a  short  stay 
there.  One  proves  that  best  by  reading  other  authors’  de¬ 
scriptions  and  conceptions  of  our  own  home,  where  we  are 
familiar  with  and  know  everything  so  well.  The  tourist  writes 
down  what  some  individuals  relate,  conceived  from  their  spe¬ 
cial  point  of  view,  and  he  himself  only  looks  through  travelling 
life’s  wavering  spectacles  ;  he  paints  landscapes  and  figures 
as  on  a  railway  flight,  and  the  details  are  not  even  so  true  as 
there. 

London  is  to  me  the  city  of  cities,  Rome  only  excepted. 
Rome  is  a  microcosm,  a  bass-relief  of  the  day.  As  for  the 
rest,  the  topic  of  the  day  was  here  Jenny  Lind,  and  only 
Jenny  Lind.  In  order  to  avoid  somewhat  too  frequent  calls, 
and  to  live  in  the  freshest  air  of  London,  she  had  hired  a 
house  at  Old  Brompton  ;  that  was  all  the  information  I  could 
get  at  the  hotel,  where  I  had  at  once  inquired  after  her.  * 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


296 

That  I  might  find  the  place  I  went  directly  to  the  “  Italian 

Opera,”  where  she  sung.  Here  also  the  policeman  was  my  best 

guide  ;  he  accompanied  me  to  the  cashier  of  the  theatre,  bul 

neither  he  nor  the  different  porters  there  would  or  could  give 

me  any  information.  I  wrote  then  upon  one  of  my  visiting- 

cards  some  words  to  Jenny  Lind  ;  I  wrote  that  I  had  arrived. 

and  told  her  where  I  lived,  and  asked  her  to  give  me  her  ad 

dress  without  delay,  and  the  next  morning  I  received  a  joyful 

and  kind  letter  “  To  her  brother.”  I  found  out  upon  the  map 

where  Old  Brompton  was,  took  my  place  in  an  omnibus ;  the 

conductor  told  me  how  far  I  was  to  go  with  him,  and  where  I 
♦  ... 
should  turn  to  find  the  house  of  “  The  Swedish  Nightingale.” 

as  he  smilingly  called  her.  A  few  days  after  I  happened  to 

go  with  the  same  omnibus  ;  I  did  not  know  the  conductor 

again,  but  he  knew  me,  and  asked  whether  I  had  found  “  The 

Nightingale,  Jenny  Lind.” 

It  was  far  out  in  a  corner  of  the  city  where  she  lived,  in  a 
nice  little  house,  with  a  low  hedge  shutting  out  the  stregt.  A 
crowd  of  people  was  standing  without,  and  looking  at  the 
house  in  order  to  get  a  glimpse  of  Jenny  Lind  ;  to-day  they 
had  a  chance,  for  on  the  ringing  of  the  bell  she  recognized  me 
from  the  windows,  and  ran  out  to  the  carriage,  shook  both  my 
hands,  looked  on  me  with  sisterly  affection,  and  forgot  the 
people  around  who  crowded  about.  We  hastened  into  the 
house,  which  was  pretty,  rich,  and  cozy.  It  opened  on  a  little 
garden  with  a  large  grass-plat  and  many  leafy-trees  ;  a  little, 
brown,  shaggy  dog  trotted  about,  jumped  up  on  the  lap  of  his 
mistress  and  was  patted  and  caressed. 

Elegantly  bound  books  lay  on  the  table.  She  showed  me 
my  “True  Story  of  my  Life,”  which  Mary  Howitt  had  dedi¬ 
cated  to  her ;  a  large  sheet  lay  on  the  table,  it  was  a  carica¬ 
ture  of  Jenny  Lind,  a  great  nightingale  with  a  girlish  face  ; 
Lumley  was  shown  putting  sovereigns  on  the  tail  to  get  her  to 
sing. 

We  talked  of  home,  of  Bournonville  and  Collin,  end  1  told 
her  of  the  Dutch  feast  given  me,  how  they  there  had  drunk  the 
health  of  old  Collin  ;  she  clapped  her  hands  and  cried,  “  Wac 
not  that  good  !  ”  She  promised  me  then  that  I  should  have 
a  ticket  to  the  opera  every  time  she  sang,  but  that  I  mus^  no* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  L7FE. 


297 


ipeak  of  paying  for  it,  because,  she  said,  the  tickets  are  fool¬ 
ishly  dear.  “  Let  me  there  sing  for  you  ;  you  may  afterward 
at  home  read  some  of  your  stories  to  me  again  !  ”  My  many 
invitations  allowed  me  to  make  use  of  her  ticket  twice  onlv. 

j 

The  first  time  I  saw  her  in  La  Somnambula  which  certainly  is 
her  best  part.  The  virginal  purity  that  shines  through  her 
imparts  a  kind  of  holiness  to  the  stage.  The  manner  with 
which,  in  the  sleep-walking  scene  in  the  last  act,  she  takes  the 
rose  from  her  breast,  holds  it  up  in  the  air,  and  involuntarily 
drops  it,  had  a  charm,  a  beauty  so  strangely  touching,  that 
tears  came  into  my  eyes.  There  was  also  such  applause  and 
excitement  as  I  have  never  seen  even  among  the  violent 
Neapolitans  ;  flowers  rained  down  upon  her,  and  everything 
was  like  a  great  festival.  Every  one  knows  how  highly  dressed 
they  are  in  the  great  opera  at  London  ;  the  gentlemen  on  the 
floor  and  in  the  first  range  of  boxes  come  with  white  cravats  ; 
the  ladies  are  dressed  as  for  a  ball,  each  of  them  with  a  large 
bouquet  in  her  hand. 

The  Queen  and  Prince  Albert  were  present,  as  also  the 
hereditary  Grand  Duke  of  Weimar  and  his  wife.  The  Italian 
language  sounded  strangely  from  Jenny  Lind’s  lips,  and  yet 
they  said  that  she  was  more  correct  than  many  Italians  ;  it  was 
the  same  in  German  ;  still  the  spirit  was  the  same  as  when  she 
sang  in  her  beautiful  vernacular  tongue.  The  composer  Verdi 
had  for  that  season  and  for  Jenny  Lind  composed  a  new  opera, 
“  I  Masnadieri,”  the  text  after  Schiller’s  “  The  Robbers.”  I 
heard  it  once,  but  even  Jenny  Lind’s  acting  and  singing  could 
not  give  life  to  that  hum-drum  poetry.  Amelia' s  part  is  closed 
by  her  being  at  last  killed  in  the  wood  by  Care  the  Moor, 
while  the  band  of  robbers  is  surrounded.  Lablache  played 
the  old  Moor,  and  it  was  indeed  highly  comical  to  see  the 
robust,  fleshy  man  coming  out  from  the  tower  saying  that  he 
was  almost  dead  with  hunger ;  the  whole  house  laughed  when 
he  said  it  That  was  at  the  same  representation  that  I  saw 
for  the  first  time  the  renowned  dancer  Taglioni  ;  she  danced 
in  “  Les  Pas  des  De'esses.”  Before  she  appeared  I  felt  a 
throbbing  of  my  heart,  which  I  always  have  when  my  expecta¬ 
tion  is  raised  for  something  excellent  and  giand. 

She  appeared  as  an  old,  little  sturdy,  and  quite  pretty 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


298 

woman ;  she  would  have  been  a  nice  lady  in  a  saloon,  but  as  \ 
young  goddess —  fuimus  Troes  !  I  sat  cool  and  indifferent  at 
the  graceful  dancing  of  that  old  lady.  There  must  be  youth 
and  that  I  found  in  Cerrito !  it  was  something  incomparably 
beautiful  ;  it  was  a  swallow-flight  in  the  dance,  a  sport  of 
Psyche,  a  flight !  that  one  did  not  see  in  Taglioni ;  fuimu$ 
Troes  /  The  Danish  dancer,  Miss  Grahn,  was  also  in  London 
and  was  highly  admired  of  all,  but  she  had  a  sore  foot  and 
did  not  dance.  One  evening  when  “  Elisire  d’Amore  ”  wa3 
given,  she  sent  for  me  to  see  her  in  her  little  box,  where  she 
disclosed  for  me  with  liveliness  and  fun  the  world  behind  the 
scenes,  and  gave  me  an  account  of  each  of  the  actors.  She 
did  not  seem  to  belong  to  the  admirers  of  Jenny  Lind.  Of 
course  she  had  to  suffer  some  opposition  in  the  midst  of  the 
applause  of  the  day,  but  that  is  always  the  case  with  whatever 
is  great  and  good.  Jenny  Lind’s  presentation  of  Norma 
as  the  afflicted,  noble  woman,  which  had  deeply  affected  me, 
did  not  generally  please  the  English,  who  earlier,  through  Grisi 
and  her  imitators,  had  conceived  her  as  a  passionate  Medea . 
Mr.  Planche,  the  author  of  “  Oberon  ”  and  of  several  other 
opera  texts,  was  a  zealous  opponent ;  but  those  small  blows 
were  lost  in  the  glory  of  her  popularity,  and  she  remained 
happy  in  her  quiet  home  under  the  shadowy  trees.  One  day 
I  came  there  fatigued  and  exhausted  by  continual  invitations 
and  overpowering  attention. 

“  Yes,  now  you  have  found  what  it  is  to  be  at  a  perpetual 
feast !  ”  said  she  ;  “  one  is  so  worn  out !  and  how  empty,  ho\i 
infinitely  empty  all  those  phrases  one  hears  said  !  ” 

When  I  afterward  rode  home  in  her  carriage,  people  thronged 
close  up  to  it,  believing  that  it  was  Jenny  Lind,  and  the) 
perceived  only  me,  who  was  to  them  a  strange,  unknown 
gentleman.  Old  Mr.  Hambro  had  through  me  invited  the 
artisi  to  a  dinee  at  his  country-house,  but  I  could  not  induce 
her  to  accept,  not  even  when  it  was  left  to  her  to  fix  the 
number  of  guests,  yes,  even  to  be  alone  with  the  old  gentleman 
ind  me.  She  would  not  change  her  manner  of  living,  bul 
allowed  me  to  take  the  honorable  old  gentleman  out  with  me 
to  see  her  ;  that  I  did,  and  both  agreed  prettily  together  ;  they 
even  talked  of  money  affairs,  and  laughed  at  me,  who  under 


iliE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  299 

itooi  so  little  about  those  things,  and  how  ;o  change  my 
talent  into  gold. 

The  young  sculptor,  Mr.  Durham,  wished  to  model  her 
bust  and  mine  ;  neither*  of  us  had  time  to  give  him  a  sufficient 
number  of  sittings.  Meanwhile  the  young  man,  by  a  few 
words  from  me,  got  permission  to  come  for  half  an  hour  to 
her,  and  remodel  the  clay  which  he  had  already  formed  fiom 
what  he  had  seen  of  her  in  the  theatre.  I  allowed  him  an  noar 
for  myself,  and  in  that  time  he  produced,  considering  the  brief 
space  allowed  him,  a  remarkably  good  bust.  This  bust,  as 
also  that  of  Jenny  Lind,  have  both  been  at  the  exhibition  in 
Copenhagen,  but  have  been  there  criticised  too  severely  ;  for 
there  was  likeness  and  a  spiritual  conception  in  both  of  them, 
and  I  should  like  to  know  if  any  Danish  artist  in  so  short  a 
time  could  have  been  able  to  do  better  than  Durham  did 
After  that  time  years  elapsed  before  I  again  saw  Jenny  Lind  ; 
she  left  England,  as  we  know,  in  triumph  and  popular  esteem, 
and  went  to  America. 

Count  Reventlow  presented  me  to  Lady  Morgan.  He  had 
already  told  me  a  few  days  before  that  the  aged  lady  expected 
us,  but  that  she  had  postponed  our  visit  to  a  fixed  day,  be- 
cause,  as  he  confided  to  me,  she  knew  me  very  web  by  name, 
but  had  never  read  anything  of  mine,  and  now  in  a  hurry  was, 
making  acquaintance  with  “  The  Improvisatore,”  the  stories, 
etc.  She  lived  in  a  house  with  small  decorated  rooms,  filled 
with  objects  of  antiquity  ;  there  was  a  French  look  about  every- 
thi  ng,  and  especially  about  the  old  lady,  who  was  all  life  and 
merriment  ;  she  spoke  French,  was  entirely  French  herself, 
and  dreadfully  painted.  She  quoted  from  my  books,  which  I 
knew  she  had  read  in  a  great  hurry,  but  she  did  it  always  with 
the  greatest  politeness  toward  me.  There  hung  on  the  wall 
a  pencil  drawing  by  Thorwaldsen  ;  it  was  that  of  “  Night  and 
Day,”  as  we  have  them  in  bass-reliefs,  and  was  given  her  at 
Rome.  She  told  me  that  she  would  invite  in  my  honor  all 
the  renowned  authors  of  London  ;  that  I  should  learn  to  know 
Dickens,  Bulwer,  etc.  ;  and  the  same  evening  she  accompanied 
me  to  Lady  Duff  Gordon's,  who  had  translated  my  story,  “  The 
Little  Mermaid,”  and  is  a  daughter  of  the  authoress  Jane 
Austen  :  here  I  might  expect  to  meet  with  many  celebrities. 


300 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


and  that  was  the  case  ;  but  I  was  received  in  a  far  more  select 
circle  by  another  English  authoress,  to  whom  I  was  introduced 
by  my  friend  Jordan,  the  editor  of  “  The  Literary  Gazette  ;  ” 
that  was  at  the  house  of  Lady  Blessington. 

She  lived  a  little  out  of  London,  in  her  mansion  Gore 
House.  She  was  a  blooming,  somewhat  corpulent  lady,  very 
elegantly  dressed,  and  with  sparkling  rings  on  her  fingers. 
She  received  me  as  kindly  as  if  I  were  an  old  acquaintance, 
shook  my  hand,  spoke  of  “  A  Poet’s  Bazaar,”  and  said  that 
there  was  a  treasure  of  poetry  in  it,  which  was  not  to  be  found 
in  many  other  books,  and  that  she  had  mentioned  it  in  her  last 
novel.  We  walked  out  on  the  great  gar’den  balcony,  that  was 
richly  overgrown  with  ivy  and  vines  ;  a  big  blackbird  from 
Van  Diejnan’s  Land  and  two  white  parrots  balanced  here :  the 
blackbird  was  caressed  and  must  warble  for  me.  Under  the 
balcony  grew  many  roses  ;  there  was  a  beautiful  green  sward, 
and  two  pretty,  drooping  willows  ;  a  little  further  away  grazed 
upon  a  green  little  meadow,  only  for  show,  a  cow,  —  all  looked 
so  country  like.  We  wandered  together  down  into  the  garden. 
She  was  the  first  English  lady  whom  I  understood  very  well, 
but  she  spoke  also  intentionally  very  slowly,  held  me  by  the 
wrist,  looked  at  me  continually  at  every  word,  and  then  asked 
me  if  I  understood  her ;  she  told  me  of  an  idea  for  a  book 
which  she  wished  me  to  write,  —  an  idea,  which  seemed  to  hei 
to  belong  to  me.  It  was  of  a  poor  man,  who  only  possessed 
hope,  and  of  a  rich  man,  who  possessed  the  real  but  not  hope  , 
and  then  it  was  to  be  shown  how  unhappy  he  was,  while  the 
poor  man  was  happy. 

Her  son-in-1  aw,  Count  d’Orsay,  the  most  elegant  gentle¬ 
man  in  London,  entered,  who,  I  was  told,  decided  by  his  toilet 
the  English  fashion.  We  went  into  his  studio,  where  there 
stood  in  clay  a  bust  of  Lady  Blessington,  nearly  finished,  made 
by  him,  as  also  an  oil  painting  of  Jenny  Lind  as  JMorma , 
pauited  by  Count  d’Orsay  from  memory.  Re  seemed  to  be  a 
*ery  talented  man,  and  he  was  also  very  po'.-te  and  amiable. 

Lady  Blessington  now  conducted  me  through  all  her  rooms  , 
toe  bust  or  portrait  of  Napoleon  was  ro  be  seen  in  almost  ah 
of  them.  At  last  we  reached  her  work-room  ;  many  open 
books  lay  on  the  table,  and,  as  I  could  see,  all  concerning 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  30* 

Anne  Boleyn.  We  spoke  of  poetr\  and  art,  and  she  hinted  at 
my  works  in  an  appreciative  way,  saying  that  she  found  in 
them  much  of  that  quality  which  had  captivated  her  in  Jenny 
Lind,  —  a  certain  heartiness  of  nature.  She  talked  about  that 
artist’s  representations  of  La  Somnambula ,  the  purity  that  was 
manifested,  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes  while  she  spoke 
of  it.  Two  young  girls,  her  daughters  I  believe,  presented 
me  a  handful  of  beautiful  roses  ;  Jordan  and  I  were  invited 
to  come  there  some  day  to  dinner,  and  she  would  then  make 
me  acquainted  with  Dickens  and  Bulwer.  Coming  at  the 
appointed  time  I  found  the  whole  house  in  festive  splendor. 
Waiters  in  silk  stockings  with  powdered  hair  stood  in  the  cor¬ 
ridor  ;  Lady  Blessington  herself  was  in  splendor  and  mag¬ 
nificence,  but  with  the  same  mild  and  radiant  face  ;  she  told 
me  that  Bulwer  could  not  come;  he  lived  at  that  time  but  for 
the  elections,  and  was  out  getting  votes.  She  did  not  seem 
to  like  that  poet  much  as  a  man,  and  said  also  that  he  was 
very  repulsive  by  reason  of  his  vanity,  and  besides  rather  deaf 
and  very  difficult  to  converse  with.  I  do  not  know  whether 
she  looked  through  a  false  glass,  but  otherwise  she  spoke 
warmly,  and  that  did  all,  of  Charles  Dickens  ;  he  also  had 
promised  to  come  and  I  should  learn  to  know  him. 

I  was  just  writing  my  name  and  a  few  words  in  the  front  of 
“  The  True  Story  of  my  Life,”  when  Dickens  entered,  youthful 
and  handsome,  with  a  wise  and  kind  expression,  and  long 
beautiful  hair,  falling  down  on  both  sides.  We  shook  hands, 
looked  into  each  other’s  eyes,  spoke  and  understood  one  an¬ 
other.  We  stepped  out  on  the  balcony.  It  was  happiness  to 
me  to  see  and  speak  with  the  one  of  England’s  living  writers 
whom  I  loved  most,  and  tears  came  into  my  eyes.  Dickens 
understood  my  love  and  admiration.  Among  my  stories  he 
mentioned  “  The  Little  Mermaid,”  which  had  been  translated 
by  Lady  Duff  Gordon,  in  “  Bentley’s  Magazine  ”  ;  he  knew 
also  “The  Bazaar,”  and  “The  Improvisatore.”  I  was  placed 
near  Dickens  at  the  table,  only  Lady  Blessington ’s  young 
daughter  sat  between  us.  He  drank  a  glass  of  wine  with  me, 
as  did  also  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  then  Marquis  of  Douro. 
At  the  end  of  the  table  was  a  great  picture,  a  full-length 
portrait  of  Napoleon,  strongly  lighted  b}  many  lamps.  Her« 


302 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


was  the  poet  Milnes,  here  the  Postmaster-general  of  England, 
authors,  journalists,  and  noblemen,  but  for  me  Dickens  was 
the  first.  I  saw  a  great  circle  of  rich  and  honorable  men  • 
the  party  consisted  wholly  of  men,  except  the  hostess’  twc 
daughters.  No  others  came  to  Lady  Blessington’s  house,  and 
these  frequented  it  without  restraint.  Count  Reventlow  and 
several  others  hinted  to  me  that  I  must  not  tell  in  the  great 
saloons  of  my  going  to  Lady  Blessington’s,  because  it  was  not 
fashionable  —  she  was  frowned  upon.  I  don’t  know  whether  the 
reason  they  gave  was  true,  but  they  told  me  that  her  son-in-law. 
Count  d’Orsay,  liked  better  his  mother-in-law’s  than  his  wife’s 
company,  and  that  the  young  wife,  who  was,  to  be  sure,  a  step¬ 
daughter  of  Lady  Blessington,  had  for  that  reason  left  hus¬ 
band,  house,  and  home,  and  lived  with  a  lady  friend  of  hers, 
while  her  husband  stayed  behind. 

Lady  Blessington  made  a  very  pleasant  impression  upon 
me  ;  and  in  the  great  circles,  when  the  noble  ladies  asked  me 
where  I  had  been,  I  could  not  abstain  from  naming  Lady  Bles¬ 
sington.  Then  there  always  was  a  pause  ;  I  asked  the  reason 
why  I  was  not  to  go  there,  or  what  was  the  matter  with  her, 
but  I  always  got  a  short  answer  that  she  was  not  a  good 
woman.  One  day  I  spoke  of  her  personal  amiability,  and  of 
her  humor,  and  related  how  she  was  affected  when  talking 
of  Jenny  Lind's  representation  of  La  Somnambula  and  the 
womanly  nobility  she  manifested;  I  had  seen  her  shed  tears 
over  it !  “  The  creature  !  ”  exclaimed  an  old  lady  indig¬ 

nantly  ;  “  Lady  Blessington  weeping  at  the  innocence  of  Jenny 
Lind  !  ”  A  few  years  after  I  read  of  Lady  Blessington’s  death 
at  Paris.  Count  d’Orsay  sat  by  her  death-bed. 

Among  other  literary  ladies  in  London  I  must  mention  the 
Quakeress  Mary  Howitt  who  had  introduced  and  made  me 
known  in  England  by  her  translation  of  my  “  Improvisa¬ 
tor. ”  Her  husband,  William  Howitt,  is  also  known  as  an 
author ;  they  published  at  that  time  in  London  “  Howitt’s 
Journal  ;  ”  in  the  number  which  appeared  just  the  week  before 
my  arrival,  was  given  a  kind  of  welcome  for  me,  as  also  my 
portrait,  which  was  to  be  seen  in  several  shop  windows.  The 
first  day  I  arrived  I  became  aware  of  it,  and  entered  a  little 
shop  to  buy  it.  “  Has  it  really  any  likeness  to  Mr.  Ander 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


30  3 

sen  ?  ”  I  asked  the  woman  who  sold  it.  “  Yes,  indeed,  a  strik- 
;ng  likeness !  ”  said  she  ;  “  you  will  know  him  by  the  pic¬ 
ture  !  ”  but  she  did  not  know  me,  though  she  talked  a  long 
time  of  the  likeness.  “The  True  Story  of  my  Life,”  a  transla¬ 
tion  of  “  Das  Marchen  meines  Lebens,”  had  recently  been  pub¬ 
lished  by  the  Longmans  ;  the  book  was  dedicated  to  Jenny 
Lind,  and  was  also  afterward  published  in  America.  Imme¬ 
diately  after  my  arrival  Mary  Howitt.  and  her  daughter  visited 
me,  and  invited  me  out  to  Clapton.  I  rode  out  there  in  an 
omnibus,  which  was  loaded  outside  and  within  ;  the  distance 
was  certainly  more  than  two  Danish  miles,  and  I  thought  that 
the  journey  would  never  come  to  an  end.  The  Howitts  lived 
very  comfortably ;  there  were  paintings  about  them,  and 
statues,  and  a  nice  little  garden.  All  received  me  very  kindly. 
A  few  houses  from  there  lived  Freiligrath,  the  German  poet, 
whom  I  had  once  visited  at  St.  Goar  on  the  Rhine,  where  he 
sung  his  warm,  picturesque  songs.  The  King  of  Prussia  had 
granted  him  an  annuity,  which  he  refused,  when  Herwegh 
mocked  at  him  as  a  pensionary  poet ;  afterward  he  wrote 
songs  of  liberty,  went  to  Switzerland,  then  to  England,  where 
he  supported  his  family  by  working  in  a  counting  room. 

I  met  him  one  day  in  London  in  the  crowd;  he  knew  me 
but  I  did  not  know  him,  because  he  had  shaved  off  the  thick 
black  beard  he  used  to  wear.  “  Do  you  not  know  me  ?  ”  said 
he,  and  laughed  ;  “  I  am  Freiligrath  !  ”  and  drawing  me  out 
of  the  crowd  toward  a  door,  he  said  in  joke,  “  You  won’t 
speak  to  me  in  the  crowd  of  people,  you,  friend  of  kings  !  ” 
The  little  room  looked  friendly,  my  portrait  hung  on  the  wall  ; 
the  painter  Hartmann,  who  had  painted  it  once  at  Graven- 
stein,  entered  the  room  ;  just  then  we  talked  about  the  Rhine 
and  of  poetry,  but  I  was  suffering  from  London  life  and  from 
the  excursion  out  here  ;  I  trusted  meanwhile  that  it  would  be 
a  cool  evening,  and  took  again  a  place  on  the  omnibus,  but 
before  I  was  well  out  of  Clapton  all  my  limbs  gave  way,  1 
felt  very  sick,  and  as  weak  as  when  at  Naples  ;  I  came  near 
fainting,  and  the  omnibus  every  moment  grew  more  thronged 
and  warm.  On  the  top  it  was  full ;  booted  legs  hung  down 
before  the  open  windows. 

I  was  several  times  about  to  say  to  the  conductor :  “  Carry 


304 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


me  into  a  house,  where  I  can  stop,  for  I  cannot  hold  up  any 
longer  here.”  The  perspiration  poured  out  of  every  pore. 
It  was  dreadful  !  we  moved  very  slowly,  and  at  last  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  everything  about  me  was  becoming  indistinct. 
Arriving  finally  at  the  Bank,  I  took  a  cab,  and  now,  sitting 
alone,  and  with  better  air,  I  recovered  and  reached  home, 
but  I  have  seldom  taken  a  trip  more  painful  than  that  from 
Clapton. 

Meanwhile  I  had  promised  to  go  out  there  again  and  stay 
a  couple  of  days  ;  the  length  of  the  stay  encouraged  me  to 
undertake  again  a  similar  journey  in  an  omnibus.  I  had 
expected  to  find  quiet  and  enjoyable  days  there,  but  friends 
often  endeavor  to  make  one  have  too  good  a  time.  They 
always  will  take  one  from  what  is  near  by  to  what  is  further 
away,  and  thus  the  very  first  day  after  dinner  we  started  in  a 
single-horse  carriage,  five  persons  within  and  three  without,  for 
a  country-house  of  an  old  maiden  lady  ;  the  heat  was  oppres¬ 
sive,  and  the  whole  trip  was  just  fit  for  a  chapter  of  one  of 
Dickens’s  novels. 

At  last  we-  reached  the  old  lady’s,  who  no  doubt  was  of  the 
literary  kind.  In  the  middle  of  the  grass-plat  before  the 
house  were  a  crowd  of  children  playing,  that  looked  like  a 
school  of  boarders  ;  they  danced  round  a  large  beech-tree,  and 
all  were  adorned  with  wreaths  of  beech  or  ivy  on  their  heads  : 
they  sang  and  ran  about.  They  were  called  together,  and 
were  told  that  I  was  the  very  Hans  Christian  Andersen  who 
had  written  the  stories  they  knew,  and  all  thronged  round  me 
and  shook  my  hand,  then  ran  away  again,  singing,  to  the  green 
spot.  Round  about  were  beautiful  hills  and  large  groves, 
which  threw  upon  the  ground  picturesque  shadows.  I  looked 
upon  it  all  from  a  hot  bower,  where  we  were  placed,  in  the 
little  garden.  A  deaf  authoress  came  who  wrote  political 
things,  and  many  poets  I  never  had  heard  of.  I  became 
more  and  more  exhausted,  and  was  at  last  obliged  to  seek 
rest ;  the  whole  of  the  afternoon  I  spent  lying  quietly  in  a 
room  by  myself  unable  to  move. 

At  sunset  the  air  was  better,  and  I  was  glad  that  I  could 
again  take  breath.  On  our  way  home  to  Clapton  we  savi 
London  illuminated  before  us  like  a  transparent  gigantic 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


305 

plan.  In  fiery  outlines,  formed  by  the  many  gas-lamps,  we 
perceived  different  winding  streets  ;  some  of  them  reached 
far  out  toward  the  distant  horizon,  a  phosphoric  ocean  with 
thousands  of  fire-flames.  The  next  day  I  was  again  in 
London. 

I  have  seen  “high  life”  and  “poverty  these  are  the  two 
poles  of  my  memory.  I  saw  Poverty  personified  in  a  pale, 
famishing  girl,  with  worn-out,  miserable  clothes,  hiding  her¬ 
self  in  the  corner  of  an  omnibus.  I  saw  Misery,  and  yet  it 
said  not  a  word  in  all  its  pitiful  ness  :  that  was  forbidden.  I 
remember  those  beggars,  men  and  women,  carrying  upon  the 
breast  a  large  piece  of  pasteboard  with  these  words  written  : 
“  I  am  starving  !  Mercy!  ”  They  dare  not  pronounce  it,  they 
are  not  allowed  to  ask  alms,  and  so  they  glide  by  like  shad¬ 
ows-  They  place  themselves  before  a  person  and  gaze  at 
him  with  hungry  and  sad  expressions  on  their  pale,  pinched 
faces.  Standing  outside  cafes  and  confectionaries,  they  choose 
one  among  the  guests  whom  they  continually  fix  with  a  glance, 
• —  O  such  a  glance  as  misery  can  show.  She  points  at  her 
sick  child  and  at  the  written  piece  of  paper  upon  her  breast, 
where  we  read  :  “  I  have  not  eaten  these  two  davs.”  I  saw 

J 

many  of  them,  and  they  told  me  that  in  the  quarter  of  the 
city  where  I  lived  there  were  but  few  of  them,  and  in  the 
rich  quarters  none  at  all  ;  those  quarters  were  shut  out  from 
that  poor  Pariah-class. 

In  London  everybody  is  industrious,  the  beggar  among  them  ; 
everything  depends  on  who  can  best  draw  attention  to  himself, 
and  I  saw  an  arrangement  by  which  this  was  fully  accomplished. 
In  the  middle  of  the  street-gutter  stood  a  cleanly  dressed  man 
and  five  children,  —  who  if  they  stood  in  the  street  or  on  the 
sidewalk  would  have  stopped  the  passage,  —  one  child  smaller 
than  the  other,  all  in  mourning,  with  a  long  mourning  veil 
streaming  from  hat  and  cap,  all  cleanly  dressed,  and  each  of 
them  holding  a  bunch  of  matches  for  sale  ;  of  course  they 
dared  not  beg.  Another  far  more  honorable  and  very  profit¬ 
able  industry  is  that  of  a  street-sweeper,  and  such  a  one,  with 
his  broom,  is  to  be  seen  almost  at  any  corner  ;  he  sweeps 
continually  the  crossing  from  street  to  street,  or  keeps  clear 
a  certain  portion  of  the  sid  walk,  and  whoever  will  may  give 

20 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  Lit E. 


306 

him  a  penny ;  there  are  quarters  where  in  the  course  of  the 
week  they  amass  quite  a  little  fortune.  I  believe  it  is  Bulwei 
who  has  told  of  such  a  man,  whose  profession  was  not  known 
co  anybody  in  his  quarter,  how  he  became  engaged  and  mar¬ 
ried  to  a  young  girl  of  the  nobility ;  he  was  away  from  lis 
house  every  day,  nobody  knew  where,  and  every  Saturday  he 
brought  home  shining  silver  pieces.  The  family  was  anxious 
and  restless,  they  believed  him  a  counterfeiter,  watched  him, 
and  discovered  then  that  he  was  a  street  sweeper.1 

It  was  the  life  of  London  I  saw.  I  got  an  insight  of  “  high 
life  ”  in  the  rich  saloons  and  in  the  crowds  of  the  streets,  the 
plaudits  in  the  theatres,  and,  what  is  a  part  of  the  nation,  the 
churches  :  it  is  in  Italy  that  churches  must  be  seen.  The 
cathedral  of  St.  Paul  in  London  looks  more  impressive  from 
without  than  from  within  ;  it  is  little  in  comparison  with  the 
cathedral  of  St.  Peter,  and  is  not  so  solemn  as  that  of  Maria 
Maggiore  or  Del  Angeli  at  Rome.  It  made  the  impression  on 
me  of  a  magnificent  Pantheon  with  rich  marble  monuments. 
Everything,  every  statue,  was  covered  with  a  black  crape  ;  it 
was  a  veil  of  coal  smoke,  which  penetrated  here  and  gave  to 
every  statue  a  certain  silky  cover.  Upon  Nelson’s  monu¬ 
ment  stands  a  young  figure,  which  stretches  the  hand  toward 
one  of  the  four  inscriptions  directing  toward  “  Copenhagen.” 
As. a  Dane  I  had  a  feeling  as  if  he  were  going  to  efface  that 
triumph. 

Westminster  made  a  much  grander  impression  on  me  ;  it  is 
a  truly  great  church  both  in  exterior  and  in  interior  !  It  is  a 
pity  that  they  have  for  English  comfort  here  built  in  the  inte¬ 
rior  of  the  great  church  a  smaller  one,  where  divine  service 
is  performed.  The  first  time  I  entered  Westminster  Abbey 
through  a  side  door,  I  stood  in  “  the  Poet’s  Corner,”  and  the 
first  monument  I  caught  sight  of  was  that  of  Shakespeare.  I 
forgot  for  the  moment  that  his  dust  did  not  repose  here :  I  was 
filled  with  devotion  and  seriousness,  and  I  leaned  my  head 
against  the  cold  marble  ;  at  one  side  is  the  monument  or  tomb 
of  Thomson,  at  the  left  that  of  Southey,  and  under  the  large 
stones  of  the  floor  repose  Garrick,  Sheridan,  and  Samuel 
Johnson.  We  know  that  the  clergy  have  not  given  permission 
1  Andeieen  has  fallen  upon  a  humorous  story  of  Thackeray  s.  —  Ed 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


307 


to  have  Byron’s  monument  placed  here.  “  I  missed  it  there  !  ’’ 
said  I  one  evening  to  an  English  Bishop, -and  spoke  as  if  I 
did  not  know  the  reason.  “  How  can  it  be  that  a  monument 
made  by  Thorwaldsen  for  one  of  the  greatest  poets  of  England 
should  not  be  placed  there?”  —  “It  has  an  excellent  place 
elsewhere  !  ”  he  answered  evasively. 

Among  manv  other  monuments  in  Westminster  for  kings 
and  great  men,  there  was  one  before  which  I  always  stopped, 
perceiving  in  one  of  the  marble  figures  my  own  face,  so  won¬ 
derfully  like  and'so  much  better  than  any  sculptor  or  painter 
had  been  able  to  do  it.  Yes,  it  was  strikingly  like  my  bust. 
A  number  of  strangers,  who  were  accidentally  standing  there 
one  day  when  I  also  was  there,  looked  at  it  and  at  me,  started 
and  gazed  astonishingly  at  me ;  it  was  for  them  as  if  the  no¬ 
ble  lord  in  the  marble  wandered  alive  in  flesh  and  blood  in 
my  shape  through  the  aisles  of  the  church. 

I  have  already  mentioned  before  that  it  was  just  at  the  time 
of  election  I  was  at  London,  and  that  was  the  reason  I  could 
not  meet  Bulwer.  Election  time  with  all  its  arrangements  and 
extravagances,  which  we  in  our  country  will  certainly  come  to 
know,  is  full  of  interest  and  variety  the  first  time  one  sees  it. 
In  several  squares  and  streets  were  erected  stands  for  speak¬ 
ers.  Men  went  through  the  crowds  with  election-lists  upo'n 
their  breast  and  back,  in  order  that  the  names  might  be  read  ; 
tlags  waved,  and  were  carried  about  in  procession  ;  from  car¬ 
riages  filled  with  electors,  handkerchiefs  were  shaken,  and  big 
flags  with  inscriptions.  Many  poorly  dressed  people,  often 
with  very  showily  dressed  servants,  came  driving  in  elegant  car¬ 
riages,  shouting  and  singing  ;  it  was  as  if  the  lords  had  sent 
for  their  most  humble  servants,  as  if  for  that  old  pagan  feast 
where  the  masters  served  their  own  slaves.  Round  the  stand 
is  a  thronging,  surging  crowd  ;  here  flew  sometimes  rotten 
oranges,  yes,  even  carrion  at  the  heads  of  the  speakers.  I 
saw  in  one  of  the  more  elegant  districts  of  London  two  young, 
well-dressed  men  approaching  the  stand,  but  while  one  of 
them  tried  to  mount,  some  one  ran  up,  crushed  both  of  their 
hats  over  their  eyes,  and  turned  them  round  ;  so  they  were 
pushed  and  tossed  by  the  whole  mass  of  people  from  one  to 
another,  away  from  the  stand,  yes,  even  out  of  the  street,  so 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


308 

that  they  were  not  allowed  to  appear  at  all.  la  the  vicin’ > 
of  London,  several  miles  out,  where  I  drove  in  a  carriage  a 
couple  of  times,  the  excitement  of  the  hour  was  still  me  e 
noticeable.  I  saw  the  different  election  parties  coming  in 
great  processions  with  large  flags  before  them  and  the  must 
fierce  inscriptions  on  them.  The  larger  part  were  for  Mr. 
Hodges  ;  his  name  was  especially  seen  ;  one  party  had  dark- 
blue  flags,  the  other  light-blue,  and  inscriptions  such  as, 
“  Hodges  forever  !  ”  “  Rothschild,  the  poor  man’s  friend  !  ” 
etc.  Bands  of  music  accompanied  each  procession,  and  were 
followed  by  a  motley  crowd.  An  old,  sick,  palsied  man  was 
carried  in  a  wheelbarrow  to  give  his  suffrage.  The  collecting 
of  ballots  took  place  at  the  market-place,  which  for  the  occa¬ 
sion  was  like  a  market-day,  with  booths  and  canvas  tents, 
where  all  things  were  exhibited  for  sale  ;  a  whole  theatre  was 
erected,  and  I  saw  them  carry  wooden  scenes  across  the 
street  to  that  great  Thespis-hall.  What  was  especially  poetical 
was  the  neat  peddler  wagons,  whole  houses  on  wheels,  —  the 
entire  household  upon  one  car,  which  was  hung  on  two  wheels 
and  drawn  by  one  horse.  It  made  a  complete  house  with  roof 
and  chimney  ;  it  was  divided  in  two  compartments,  of  which 
the  hindmost  formed  a  kind  of  room  or  kitchen  with  plates 
and  tin  pans  ;  the  wife  sat  before  the  door  spinning  upon  her 
distaff ;  a  little  red  curtain  hung  before  the  open  window. 
The  husband  and  son  were  on  horseback,  but  at  the  same 
time  guided  the  horse  before  the  wandering  house. 

The  present  Baron  Hambro  had  hired  a  country-house  out 
of  the  city  of  Pldinburgh,  at  Stirling,  where  he  spent  the  sum¬ 
mer  with  his  wife,  who  was  an  invalid  and  was  trying  salt-water 
bathing.  He  wrote  to  his  father  that  he  should  induce  me  to 
visit  him,  as  I  had  many  friends  in  Scotland  who  would  be 
very  glad  to  see  me.  I  was  afraid  to  undertake  the  long  jour¬ 
ney,  as  I  did  not  speak  English  well  enough  to  venture  alone 
so  far  up  in  the  country.  A  renewed  invitation  and  a  letter 
to  his  father  asking  him  to  accompany  me,  decided  me  to  go, 
and  in  company  with  the  elder  Hambro  I  now  started  on  the 
railway  from  London  to  Edinburgh.  We  divided  our  journey 
into  two  days  and  spent  the  night  at  York.  We  went  by  an 
express  train  at  flying  speed,  and  without  as  much  stopping 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  3O9 

as  would  allow  us  to  alight  a  single  time  during  the  whole 
journey. 

The  old  song  runs  :  “  Through  valleys,  over  mountains  ;  ” 
here  we  might  sing :  “  Over  valleys,  through  mountains  !  We 
flew  like  the  Wild  Huntsman.  The  landscape  rolled  around 
us  and  under  us ;  the  country  resembled  that  about  Funen 
and  Als  :  sometimes  we  passed  through  the  earth,  through 
endless,  dark  tunnels,  where  for  ventilation  they  had  made 
apertures  over  our  head  ;  we  met  many  trains,  which  whistled 
by  like  rockets,  and  new  views  of  more  mountainous  charac¬ 
ter  appeared,  interspersed  with  tile-kilns  with  fire  flaming  out 
of  the  chimneys.  At  the  railway  station  in  York  a  gentleman 
saluted  me  and  presented  to  me  two  ladies :  it  was  the  pres¬ 
ent  Duke  of  Wellington,  who  knew  me,  and  one  of  them  was 
his  bride.  We  passed  the  night  in  the  “  Black  Swan  ”  at 
York ;  I  saw  the  old  city  with  its  beautiful  cathedral ;  I  had 
never  before  seen  such  picturesque  houses  with  carved  work 
in  gable-ends  and  balconies  as  were  here.  The  swallows  flew 
whistling  through  the  street  in  great  flocks,  and  my  own  bird, 
the  stork,  hovered  over-  my  head.  The  following  day  we  went 
by  the  railway  train  to  Newcastle,  situated  in  a  depth  of  smoke 
and  steam.  The  viaduct  and  bridge  near  the  town  were  not 
yet  finished,  and  we  were  therefore  obliged  to  go  in  an  omni¬ 
bus  through  the  city  to  the  railway  beyond  the  town.  All 
was  bustle  and  in  disorder  here. 

In  England  they  do  not  give  one  tickets  for  baggage,  as  in 
other  countries  of  Europe,  and  the  travellers  themselves  must 
take  care  of  their  things  ;  at  those  places  where  the  luggage 
had  to  be  shifted  it  was  certainly  a  real  plague.  This  day  the 
crowd  here  was  very  great ;  there  were  many  travellers,  and 
early  the  same  morning  an  express  train  of  gentlemen  had 
just  started,  who,  with  their  hounds,  were  going  a-hunting  in 
Scotland.  All  the  first-class  carriages  were  already  taken  up, 
and  so  we  were  placed  in  second-class  carriages,  which  are 
as  bad  as  they  can  be,  with  wooden  seats  and  wooden  window- 
blinds,  used  only  for  fourth-class  carriages  in  other  countries. 

The  railway,  passing  over  two  deep  valleys,  was  not  yet 
finished,  but  still  so  far  completed  that  we  could  pass  over  it. 
The  timber- work  of  the  bridges  was  placed  upon  mighty  col* 


310  the  story  of  my  life. 

limns,  and  on  this  the  rails  were  laid,  but  for  the  eye  it  was 
as  if  all  wood-work  was  wanting,  —  as  if  we  passed  over  the 
railings  of  a  bridge  ;  we  looked  through  the  open  frame-work 
down  into  the  deep  below  us,  where  people  were  working  on 
the  banks  of  the  river.  We  arrived  at  last  at  the  river  which 
marks  the  boundary  between  England  and  Scotland ;  the 
realm  of  Walter  Scott  and  Burns  lay  before  us.  Here  the 
country  was  more  mountainous  ;  we  saw  the  sea  ;  the  railway 
runs  along  the  shore  ;  many  boats  were  lying  here,  and  at  last 
we  reached  Edinburgh.  The  city  is  divided  by  a  narrow,  deep 
valley,  like  an  immense  dried  up  trench,  into  the  old  and  new 
town,  and  down  in  the  valley  the  railway  from  London  to 
Glasgow  passes.  New  Edinburgh  has  straight  streets,  and 
modern  but  tedious  looking  buildings ;  one  street  crosses  an¬ 
other  or  runs  parallel  with  it ;  the  city  possesses  no  other 
Scottish  characteristic  than  that  it  has,  like  the  Scottish  plaid, 
its  regular  quadrangles  ;  but  old  Edinburgh  is  a  city  most 
picturesquely  magnificent,  so  old  looking,  so  gloomy  and  pe¬ 
culiar.  The  houses,  which  have  in  the  main  street  two  or 
three  stories,  have  their  rears  on  that  deep  cut  which  divides 
the  old  and  new  city,  and  here  the  same  houses  have  from 
nine  to  eleven  stories.  When  in  the  evening  the  lights  are 
burning  in  the  different  rooms,  story  above  story,  and  the 
intense  gas-lights  are  beaming  over  the  roofs  of  the  other 
houses  in  the  lofty  streets,  then  it  produces  a  peculiar,  almost 
gala  aspect,  with  lights  high  up  in  the  air,  and  may  be  seen 
from  the  railway  carriages,  which  pass  at  the  base  of  Edin¬ 
burgh.  I  arrived  here  with  old  Hambro  toward  evening ;  the 
son  met  us  with  his  carriage  at  the  railway  terminus;  the 
reception  was  a  bright  one,  and  soon  we  went  on  a  gallop  out 
of  the  city  to  their  country-house,  “  Mount  Trinity,”  where  I 
was  now  to  find  in  Hambro’s  family  a  home  in  Walter  Scott’s 
country,  and  Burns's  mountains!  Many  letters  that  had  ar¬ 
rived  for  me,  lay  before  me  as  a  bouquet ;  there  was  an  air 
of  elegance  and  comfort,  such  as  one  often  finds  in  an  English 
house  ;  I  saw  around  me  dear,  kind  people,  who  were  most 
hospitably  disposed.  It  was  one  of  my  life’s  happiest  even¬ 
ings.  Our  house  was  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  garden,  sur¬ 
rounded  with  low  walls  :  the  railway  from  Edinburgh  out  to 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


3** 

the  bay  of  the  sea  passed  near  by.  The  fishing-place  here  is 
a  considerable  town,  but  very  like  those  of  the  Zealand  fishers. 
The  Scotch  women’s  dresses  were  still  more  picturesque  than 
the  Danish  ;  a  broad  striped  skirt  very  neatly  tucked  up  show¬ 
ing  the  variegated  petticoat. 

The  next  day  I  already  felt  as  if  I  had  lived  a  long  time  in 
the  family ;  where  we  know  that  we  are  dear  and  welcome, 
there  we  soon  feel  as  at  home.  I  found  here  livelv,  amiable 
children  whom  the  old  grandfather  loved  tenderly.  I  could 
again  enjoy  a  happy  family  life.  The  custom  and  manners  of 
the  house  were  in  all  respects  quite  English.  In  the  evening 
the  family  and  servants  were  gathered  for  devotions,  a  prayer 
was  said,  a  chapter  from  the  Bible  was  read.  I  saw  the  same 
thing  afterward  in  all  the  families  where  I  came  ;  and  it  made 
a  beautiful  and  good  impression  on  me.  Every  day  was  rich 
with  variety  for  me.  The  first  forenoon  there  began  the 
making  of  calls  and  seeing  and  knowing  all  around  me.  I 
was  certainly  in  great  want  of  bodily  rest,  but  how  could  1  get 
it  here  where  there  was  so  much  to  be  done  ? 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes  by  the  railway  train  to  Edinburgh. 
The  train  stopped  before  a  tunnel  under  the  hill,  on  the  top 
of  which  several  of  the  new  Edinburgh  streets  are  situated. 
Most  of  the  passengers  alighted. 

“  Are  we  already  there  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  No,  sir,”  said  my  guide,  as  we  again  were  moving,  “  but 
only  a  few  passengers  go  farther,  because  they  are  afraid  that 
the  tunnel  here  is  not  strong  enough  ;  that  the  whole  street 
on  the  top  may  tumble  down  into  the  tunnel,  and  therefore 
most  of  them  prefer  to  alight  here;  I  do  not  think  it  will 
tumble  down  while  we  are  going  through  !  ”  —  and  we  rushed 
into  the  long,  dark  vault  —  and  that  time  it  did  not  fall  down, 
but  it  was  not  pleasant  at  all  ;  still  I  always  passed  through 
it  when  I  visited  Edinburgh  by  railway. 

The  view  from  the  new  city  of  the  old  one  is  imposing  and 
magnificent,  and  offers  a  panorama  which  places  Edinburgh, 
as  to  picturesque  groupings,  along  with  Constantinople  and 
Stockholm.  The  long  street  —  we  may  almost  call  it  a  quay, 
if  the  gap,  through  which  the  railway  runs  may  be  considered 
as  a  channel  —  has  the  whole  panorama  of  the  old  city  with  its 


312 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


castle  and  Heriot’s  hospital.  Where  the  city  declines  toward 
the  sea  is  the  mountain,  “  Arthur’s  Seat,”  known  from  Wal¬ 
ter  Scott’s  novel,  “The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.”  The  en¬ 
tire  old  city  itself  is  a  great  commentary  upon  his  power¬ 
ful  writings.  Therefore  the  monument  of  Walter  Scott  is 
fittingly  placed  here,  where  from  the  new  part  of  the  city  the 
panorama  of  old  Edinburgh  is  seen.  The  monument  has  the 
shape  of  a  mighty  Gothic  tower  ;  below  we  see  a  sitting  statue 
of , the  poet,  his  dog  Maida  reposing  at  his  feet,  and  in  the  up¬ 
per  arches  of  the  tower  are  seen  the  world  renowned  characters 
in  his  writings,  Meg  Merrilies ,  the  Last  Minstrel ,  and  so  forth. 

The  renowned  physician,  Dr.  Simpson,  was  my  guide  in  the 
old  town.  The  main  street  runs  along  the  ridge  of  a  hill  ; 
its  many  side  streets  are  narrow,  filthy,  and  with  houses  of  six 
stories  ;  the  oldest  houses  seemed  to  be  built  of  heavy  free¬ 
stone.  We  are  reminded  of  the  mighty  buildings  of  the  dirty 
Italian  towns.  Poverty  and  misery  seemed  to  peep  out  of  the 
open  holes  which  are  used  for  windows  ;  rags  and  tatters  were 
put  out  to  dry.  There  was  shown  in  one  of  those  lanes  a 
dark,  gloomy,  stable-looking  house,  which  once  had  been 
Edinburgh’s  notable  and  only  hotel,  where  kings  used  to  put 
up,  and  where  Samuel  Johnson  had  lived  a  long  while.  I  saw 
the  house  where  Burke  had  lived,  where  the  unhappy  victims 
were  enticed  to  enter  and  were  suffocated,  in  order  to  be  sold 
as  corpses.  In  the  main  street  was  still  to  be  seen,  though 
in  a  dilapidated  condition,  Knox’s  little  house,  with  a  piece  of 
sculpture  representing  him  speaking  from  a  pulpit.  Passing 
by  the  old  prison  of  Edinburgh,  which  does  not  attract  atten¬ 
tion  by  its  exterior,  but  only  by  Walter  Scott’s  novel,  we 
continued  our  researches  down  to  Holyrood,  which  is  situated 
in  the  western  outskirts  of  the  city.  We  saw  here  a  long 
hall  with  poor  portraits,  and  other  rooms,  where  Charles  X. 
had  lived.  Not  until  we  came  to  Mary  Stuart’s  sleeping- 
room  had  Holyrood  any  interest  for  me.  The  hangings 
here  showed  “  The  Fall  of  Phaeton,”  which  she  might  have 
had  always  before  her  eyes,  as  if  it  was  a  prediction  of  her 
own  fate.  Into  that  little  room  near  ty  was  the  ijnhappy 
Rizzio  dragged  to  be  murdered.  Stains  of  blood  are  still  to 
oe  seen  on  the  floor  :  on  either  side  was  a  dark  tower- chan** 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


3!3 


ber  ;  the  church  was  now  a  beautiful  ruin.  Ivy,  which  in 
England  and  Scotland  grows  with  an  abundance  I  have  seen 
only  in  Italy,  covers  here  the  walls  of  the  church  ;  it  looks 
like  a  great  rich  carpet,  the  eternal  green  winding  up  round 
windows  and  columns.  Grass  and  flowers  shoot  up  around 
the  tombstones. 

Do  not  call  these  pictures  of  Edinburgh  passages  from  an 
account  of  a  journey ;  they  are  really  sections  of  the  story 
of  my  life.  They  are  reflected  so  vividly  in  my  mind  and 
thoughts,  that  they  belong  there  entirely. 

There  was  a  scene  connected  with  this  exploration  of  the 
city  and  buildings  which  made  a  strong  impression  on  me. 
A  large  company  of  us  visited  George  Heriot’s  hospital,  —  a 
grand  building  like  a  palace,  whose  founder,  the-  goldsmith, 
we  all  know  from  Walter  Scott’s  novel,  “The  Fortunes  of 
Nigel.”  The  stranger  must  bring  a  written  permit,  and  then 
with  his  own  hand  write  his  name  in  the  book  at  the  entrance. 
I  wrote  my  whole  name,  “  Hans  Christian  Andersen,”  1  as  I 
always  have  been  called  in  England  and  Scotland.  The  old 
porter  read  it,  and  followed  steadily  the  elder  Hambro,  who 
had  a  good,  jovial  face  and  silvery  hair,  showing  him  every 
attention,  and  at  last  asked  him  if  he  were  the  Danish  poet. 

“  I  have  always  thought  him  to  have  a  mild  face  and  vener¬ 
able  hair  like  yours.” 

“  No,”  was  the  answer,  pointing  to  me,  “there  is  the  poet !  ” 
So  young !  ”  exclaimed  the  old  man  :  “  I  have  read  him, 
and  the  boys  have  read  him  also  !  It  is  remarkable  to  see 
such  a  man,  for  they  are  always  so  old  or  else  dead,  when  we 
hear  of  them  !  ”  They  told  me  of  it  and  I  went  up  to  the. 
old  man  and  pressed  his  hand.  He  and  the  boys  knew  very 
veil  about  “  The  Ugly  Duckling  ”  and  “  The  Red  Shoes  !  ” 

It  surprised  and  affected  me  to  be  known  here,  and  that  1 
nad  friends  among  these  poor  children  and  those  who  sur¬ 
rounded  them.  I  was  obliged  to  step  aside  to  hide  my  tears; 
God  knows  the  thoughts  of  my  heart. 

The  editor  of  the  “  Literary  Gazette,”  Mr.  Jerdan,  had 
lairnished  me  with  a  letter  to  the  well-known  editor  of  the 

1  The  reader  may  have  noticed  that  in  Denmark  ms  name  is  alway* 
written  “  H.  C.  Andersen.” —Ed. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


3*4 

u  Edinburgh  Review,”  Lord  Jeffrey,  to  whom  Dickens  has 
dedicated  his  “Cricket  on  the  Hearth.”  He  lived  out  of 
Edinburgh  at  his  country  seat,  a  truly  old,  romantic  castle, 
whose  walls  and  windows  were  almost  covered  with  ivy.  A 
great  fire  burned  in  the  fire-place  in  the  large  saloon,  where  the 
family  soon  was  gathered,  and  where  young  and  old  surrounded 
me.  Kindly  children  and  grandchildren  came  forth  ;  I  was 
begged  to  write  my  name  in  different  copies  of  my  books 
which  they  had.  We  walked  round  in  the  great  park  to  a 
point  from  which  we  had  a  fine  view  of  Edinburgh,  which 
resembles  much  that  of  Athens  ;  here  we  saw  also  a  Lycabettos 
and  an  Acropolis.  A  couple  of  days  after  the  whole  family  re¬ 
turned  my  visit ;  they  came  to  “  Mount  Trinity,”  and  as  they 
took  leave  Lord  Jeffrey  said,  “  Come  soon  again  to  Scotland 
that  we  may  see  each  other  ;  I  have  not  many  years  to  live  !  ” 
Death  has  already  called  him  ;  we  did  not  meet  again  upon 
earth. 

I  met  several  renowned  personages  in  social  life  at  the 
house  of  the  authoress,  Miss  Righby,  who  has  visited  Copen¬ 
hagen  and  written  of  it ;  and  at  that  of  the  excellent  physician 
Mr.  Simpson,  I  came  to  know  the  greatest  variety  of  people. 
I  met  the  joval  critic  Mr.  Wilson  :  he  was  all  life  and  humor, 
and  called  me  jokingly  “  brother  ;  ”  the  most  opposite  critical 
parties  met  to  show  me  their  good-will. 

The  Danish  Walter  Scott  was  the  name  of  honor  with  which 
many  unworthily  honored  me ;  the  authoress  Mrs.  Crowe 
brought  me  also  into  her  novel  “  Susan  Hopley,”  which  has 
been  translated  into  Danish.  We  met  at  Dr.  Simpson’s,  where, 
at  a  large  party,  experiments  with  ether  inhalation  were  made  : 
it  was  to  my  mind  not  a  nice  thing  to  see  ladies  dreaming 
under  the  intoxication ;  they  laughed  with  open,  dead  eyes. 
It  made  me  very  uncomfortable,  and  so  I  said,  confess- 
ing  that  it  was  an  excellent  and  blessed  discovery  to  be 
used  at  a  painful  operation,  but  not  to  play  with ;  that  to 
make  such  experiments  was  wrong,  and  a  tempting  of  God  ; 
an  old  venerable  man  joined  with  me  and  said  the  same.  It 
teems  that  I  had  by  my  remark  won  his  heart ;  and  when  a 
few  days  after  we  accidentally  met  on  the  street,  where  I  had 
just  bought  as  a  souvenir  of  Edinburgh  a  copy  of  the  Holy 


TIIE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


315 

Bible  in  a  cheap,  beautiful  edition,  he  became  still  more  drawn 
toward  me,  stroked  me  on  the  cheek,  and  said  warm  things  in 
praise  of  my  pious  mind,  which  I  did  not  deserve.  Accident 
had  placed  me  in  a  light  which  appeared  to  him  so  beautiful. 

Eight  days  had  elapsed  and  I  wished  to  see  a  little  of  the 
Highlands.  Hambro,  who  with  his  family,  was  going  to  a 
bathing-place  on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland,  proposed  to 
make  me  their  guest  on  the  journey  through  a  part  of  the 
Highlands,  and  together  with  them  to  see  those  places  which 
Walter  Scott  has  painted  for  us  in  “  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,” 
and  in  “  Rob  Roy  ;  ”  we  were  not  to  separate  before  we  came 
to  Dumbarton. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  Frith  of  Forth  is  situated  the 
little  town  of  Kirkcaldy,  where  on  the  woody  mountain  lies  a 
magnificent  old  ruin  ;  gulls  hovered  over  it,  and  plunged  their 
wings  with  shrieks  into  the  water.  It  was  at  first  told  me  that 
that  was  the  ruin  of  Ravens  wood  Castle,  but  an  old  gentle¬ 
man  from  the  town  came  forward,  and  explained  that  that  was 
something  they  had  invented  to  tell  strangers,  because  the 
name  had  gained  more  than  common  interest  through  “  The 
Bride  of  Lamtnermoor,”  but  in  itself  the  name  of  Ravenswood 
was  only  a  fanciful  name  of  the  author.  The  event  took 
place  further  up  in  Scotland.  The  name  of  Ashton,  too,  was 
a  fictitious  one,  the  real  family  living  still,  and  called  Star. 

The  ruin  with  its  gloomy  prison-vaults,  its  luxurious  ever¬ 
green,  which  like  a  carpet  covered  the  remnants  of  the  walls, 
and  grew  in  clusters  down  the  projecting  cliff,  was  most  pic 
turesque  and  peculiar,  because  the  sea  had  just  receded  at 
the  ebbing  of  the  tide.  The  view  of  Edinburgh  from  here 
was  very  grand  and  memorable. 

We  went  on  a  steamer  up  the  Frith  of  Forth  ;  a  modern 
minstrel  sang  Scottish  ballads,  and  accompanied  his  song  by 
playing  upon  his  violin,  which  was  in  very  poor  tune  ;  thus  we 
apnroached  the  Highlands,  where  the  rocks  stood  like  out¬ 
posts,  the  fog  hovered  over  them  and  lifted  again  ;  it  was  like 
an  unexpected  arrangement  to  show  us  the  land  of  Ossian  in 
*ts  true  light.  Stirling’s  mighty  castle,  situated  on  a  rock, 
which  appeared  like  a  gigantic  figure  of  stone,  thrown  out 
from  the  level  plain,  crowned  the  town,  whose  oldest  streets 


‘I  H  tL  STORY  Ot  MY  LI  Hi. 


316 

are  dirty,  badly  paved,  and  in  quite  the  same  style  as  in  the 
days  of  yore. 

It  is  said  that  the  Scots  like  to  tell  stories  about  the  history 
of  their  country,  and  out  of  Darnley’s  house  there  came  a 
shoemaker  up  to  us  in  the  street,  and  gave  us  explanations, 
and  anecdotes  about  Darnley,  Mary  Stuart,  ancient  times,  and 
the  exploits  of  the  Scots. 

The  view  is  really  grand  from  the  castle  over  the  histone 
plain  where  the  battle  was  fought  between  Edward  II.  and 
Robert  Bruce.  We  drove  to  the  line  where  King  Edward 
pitched  his  standard.  Posterity  has  chipped  off  so  many 
pieces  of  the  stones  among  which  it  stood,  that  now,  in  order 
to  prevent  it,  there  has  been  laid  an  iron  lattice  over  the  stones. 
A  poor  smithy  stands  near  by  ;  we  entered  it :  it  was  here  that 
James  I.  took  his  refuge,  sent  for  a  priest  and  confessed  ;  the 
priest  hearing  that  he  was  the  king,  stabbed  him  with  a  knife 
through  the  heart,  —  the  smith’s  wife  showed  us  in  her  little 
room  a  corner,  where  her  bed  was  standing,  which  was  the 
very  place  of  the  murder.  The  whole  country  had  besides  a 
Danish  appearance,  but  was  poorer  and  did  not  look  so  ad¬ 
vanced.  The  linden-tree  was  here  in  blossom,  while  at  home  it 
already  bore  its  great  seed-buttons. 

Travelling  in  England  and  Scotland  is  very  expensive,  but 
one  gets  something  for  his  money  here  ;  everything  is  excel¬ 
lent,  one  is  well  taken  care  of,  and  is  comfortable,  even  in  the 
smallest  village-inns  ;  at  least  so  it  appeared  to  me.  Cal 
lander  is  nothing  but  a  village,  but  we  lived  here  as  in  a  castle 
of  a  count ;  soft  carpets  were  lying  on  the  stairs  and  along  the 
entries,  the  fire  flashed  in  the  grate,  and  it  was  needed  too, 
though  the  sun  shone  and  we  saw  the  Scots  going  with  bare 
knees,  as  they  also  do  in  the  winter-time.  They  wrapped 
themselves  up  in  variegated  plaids  ;  even  poor  boys  wore  one, 
if  only  a  rag. 

Out  of  my  window  a  river  could  be  seen  winding  round  an 
old  hill,  like  our  Giant  Mounds  ;  there  was  an  arched  bridge 
covered  with  the  most  luxurious  evergreen,  and  near  by  the 
rocks  rose  higher ;  the  Highlands  lay  before  us.  Early  in  the 
morning  we  set  out  to  reach  the  steamboat,  on  Loch  Katrine. 
The  road  grew  more  and  more  wild ;  the  sweet  bi  00m 


THE  STOR  Y  OF  MY  LIFE.  3  1  >J 

began  to  appear  in  blosom  ;  we  passed  by  seme  solitary 
houses  built  of  stone.  Loch  Katrine,  long  and  narrow, 
with  deep,  dark  water,  lay  stretched  between  green  moun¬ 
tain  ridges.  Heath  and  brush  covered  the  banks,  and  as  far 
as  I  could  see,  the  impression  was :  “  If  the  heaths  of  Jut¬ 
land  are  a  sea  in  calm,  the  heaths  here  are  a  sea  in  storm  ! 
The  great  mountain  waves  are  standing  dull,  but  green,  with 
brush  and  grass.  At  our  left  lay  in  the  lake  a  little  island 
overgrown  with  wood  ;  it  was  Ellen’s  Island,  from  which  “the 
Lady  of  the  Lake  ”  had  set  out  in  her  boat.  At  the  opposite 
side  of  the  lake,  at  the  extreme  point  where  we  landed,  was  a 
poor  inn,  —  a  kind  of  sleeping-place,  large  and  wide,  bed  set  by 
bed,  I  think  almost  fifty  of  them  ;  the  room  was  low-studded., 
reed  mats  were  on  the  floor,  and  the  walls  pierced  by  small 
windows  ;  it  looked  like  a  turf-house,  where  the  travellers 
coming  over  Loch  Lomond  from  “  Red  Robin’s  ”  land  could 
get  a  shelter  .till  the  following  morning,  when  the  steamer 
passed  over  Loch  Katrine.  We  did  not  stay  here  very  long  ; 
all  the  passengers  went  away,  most  of  them  on  foot,  some 
riding  on  horseback.  Hambro  had  procured  a  little  carriage 
for  me  and  for  his  wife,  both  of  us  being  too  weak  to  make 
the  fatiguing  foot-journey  through  the  heather.  There  was  no 
regular  road,  only  a  foot-path.  We  drove  where  the  carriage 
best  could  go,  over  high  places  and  low,  over  knolls  and  stones, 
which  served  as  marks  for  a  future  road.  The  driver  walked 
by  the  side  of  the  horse  ;  now  we  rolled  down  the  descent  at 
v  rapid  rate,  and  then  went  dragging  slowly  upward ;  it  was 
;  peculiar  pace.  Not  a  house  was  to  be  seen  ;  we  did  not 
meet  a  man  ;  all  around  was  quiet,  —  dark  mountains  wrapped 
in  mist ;  all  one  and  the  same.  A  lonely  shepherd,  who, 
stiff  with  cold,  was  wrapped  up  in  his  gray  plaid,  was  the  first 
and  the  only  living  object  we  saw  for  miles.  There  was  a  re¬ 
pose  over  the  whole  landscape.  Ben  Lomond,  the  highest 
top  of  the  mountain,  broke  through  the  fog,  and  soon  we  dis¬ 
covered  below  us  Loch  Lomond.  The  descent  to  it  was 
so  steep,  although  there  was  a  kind  of  road,  that  it  was  a  dan¬ 
gerous  thing  to  come  down  with  a  carriage.  We  had  to  leave 
*t,  and  on  foot  we  approached  the  well-furnished  steamboat. 
The  fiist  I  met  on  board  was  a  countryman,  the  excellent 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


3l8 

geological  author  of  the  Island  of  Moen,  Mr.  R.  Pug&aard. 
We  were  all  on  board  wrapped  up  in  our  plaids  ;  in  rain  and 
drizzle,  in  fog  and  wind  the  steamboat  passed  straight  up  to 
the  most  northern  part  of  the  lake,  where  a  little  river  flows 
out ;  passengers  were  coming  and  going  ;  we  were  now  in  the 
midst  of  the  scenery  of  “  Rob  Roy,”  — 

“  Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood, 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flood  !  ”  — 

as  it  is  sung  in  “  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.”  Here  on  the 
right,  on  our  return  down  the  lake,  we  passed  Rob  Roy’s 
cavern.  A  boat  arrived  with  a  large  company ;  among  them 
was  a  young  lady,  who  looked  fixedly  and  penetratingly  at  me  ; 
a  little  while  after  one  of  the  gentlemen  came  up  to  me  and 
told  me  that  she  was  a  young  lady  who  thought  she  knew  me 
from  a  portrait,  and  asked  me  if  I  was  not  the  Danish  poet, 
Hans  Christian  Andersen  ?  “  Yes,”  I  said,  and  the  young  lady 

ran  toward  me,  happy  and  affectionate,  and  like  an  old  friend 
confidentially  pressed  my  hand,  and  expressed  naturally  and 
beautifully  her  happiness  at  seeing  me.  I  asked  her  for  one  of 
the  many  mountain  flowers  she  brought  with  her  from  Rob  Roy’s 
rock,  and  she  selected  the  best  and  most  beautiful  one.  Her 
father  and  the  whole  family  surrounded  me,  and  urged  me  to 
accompany  them  to  their  home,  to  be  their  guest,  but  I  neither 
could  nor  would  leave  my  company.  It  pleased  Mr.  Hambro 
to  see  the  respect  that  was  shown  me,  and  the  attention  of  all 
the  passengers  was  soon  directed  to  me,  and  it  was  astonish- 
.ng  to  see  how  large  a  circle  of  friends  I  had.  There  is  a 
peculiarly  happy  feeling,  when  so  far  from  home,  in  being  so 
well  received  and  made  to  belong  to  so  many  kind  people. 

We  landed  at  Balloch,  passed  by  Smollet’s  monument  in 
his  little  native  town,  and  arrived  toward  evening  at  Dumbar¬ 
ton,  a  real  Scotch  town  near  the  Clyde.  In  the  night  a  storm 
raged  with  long,  gigantic  gusts,  and  it  was  as  if  I  continually 
heard  the  rolling  of  the  sea  ;  there  was  a  constant  crash  ;  the 
windows  rattled,  a  sick  cat  mewed  all  the  time,  it  was  not  pos¬ 
sible  to  shut  my  eyes  ;  but  at  dawn  it  grew  calmer,  —  a  sepul¬ 
chral  calm  after  such  a  night.  It  was  Sunday,  and  that  signifies 
something  in  Scotland,  where  all  is  at  rest ;  even  railway  trains 
%ere  not  going,  except  only  that  from  London  to  Edinburgh 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  3  I  Cj 

but  which  does  not  stop,  that  it  may  not  give  offense  to  th/» 
puritan  Scots.  All  the  houses  were  closed,  people  were  staying 
at  home,  reading  the  Bible  or  getting  drunk  —  so  I  was  told. 
It  wa$  entirely  against  my  nature  to  stay  in  doors  a  whole  da^ 

I  proposed  to  take  a  walk,  but  I  was  told  that  it  would  not  de 
and  would  give  offense.  Toward  evening,  however,  we  all 
took  a  promenade  out  of  town,  but  there  was  such  a  silence, 
such  a  looking  out  at  us  from  the  windows,  that  we  soon  turned 
back  again.  A  young  Frenchman,  with  whom  I  spoke,  assured 
me  that  he  had  recently  been  out  one  Sunday  afternoon 
with  two  Englishmen  with  a  fishing-rod,  when  an.  old  gentle¬ 
man  passe'd  by  and  with  the  most  hard  and  angry  words  re¬ 
proached  them  for  their  wickedness  in  diverting  themselves  on 
Sunday,  instead  of  sitting  at  home  with  their  Bibles,  and  they 
ought  at  least  not  to  offend  or  excite  others  !  Such  a  Sunday 
piety  cannot  be  really  true  ;  where  it  is,  I  honor  it,  but  as  an  in¬ 
herited  habit  it  becomes  a  mask,  and  only  occasions  hypocrisy. 

I  stopped  at  a  little  book-store  with  Hambro  to  buy  books 
and  maps. 

“  Have  you  the  portrait  of  the  Danish  poet,  Hans  Christian 
Andersen  ?  ”  asked  Hambro,  jestingly. 

“Yes,  sir  !  ”  answered  the  man,  and  added  :  “  The  poet  is 
said  to  be  here  in  Scotland  !  ” 

“  Should  you  know  him  ?  ”  The  man  looked  at  Hambro, 
took  my  portrait,  looked  steadily  at  him,  and  said  :  “  It 
must  be  you  !  ”  so  faithful  was  the  picture  !  Hambro  would 
not  let  me  remain  unknown  ;  and  when  the  good  man  in 
Dumbarton  heard  that  I  was  the  author,  he  forgot  all,  begged 
to  know  if  he  might  call  for  his  wife  and  children  to  come 
and  see  and  talk  with  me.  They  came  and  seemed  very 
happy  to  meet  me,  and  nothing  would  do  but  I  must  shake 
hands  all  round.  I  felt  and  understood  that  at  least  my 
name  if  not  I  myself  was  known  in  Scotland.  “  Nobody  will 
believe  it  at  home  !  ”  said  I  to  Hambro,  and  added  :  “  But  let 
it  be  so  ;  it  is  much  more  than  I  deserve !  ”  I  was  touched,  I 
shed  tears,  as  I  always  do  when  I  am  surprised  by  anything 
unexpected,  or  when  people  see  something  too  much  in  my 
poetical  nature.  It  all  went  beyond  my  most  daring  youthful 
theams  and  expectations ;  it  often  seemed  tc  me  that  it  was 


320 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


only  a  dream,  an  empty  dream,  that  I  should  not  dare  tell  mj» 
friends  when  I  awoke.  In  Dumbarton  I  took  leave  of  Ham* 
bro  ;  his  wife  and  children  went  to  a  sea-side  watering  place, 
and  I  by  steamer  up  the  river  Clyde  to  Glasgow  ;  the  parting 
made  me  very  sad,  for  I  had  all  the  time  in  Scotland  li\ed 
with  these  dear  people.  Hambro  himself  had  been  as  a  Y rd, 
careful  brother  to  me  ;  whatever  he  believed  could  please  ir.e 
that  I  received  ;  he  anticipated  my  wishes,  and  his  excellent 
wife  was  full  of  spirit  and  feeling ;  the  children  also  were  trust¬ 
ful  and  lively.  I  have  not  seen  any  of  them  since,  and  I  shall 
see  the  mother  only  when  I  go  to  God,  to  whom  she  went 
from  her  dear  ones  here  on  the  earth  ;  my  thoughts  fly  toward 
her  with  thankfulness.  It  is  comforting  and  good  to  have 
dear  friends  on  the  earth  and  in  heaven. 

I  had  yet  a  struggle  with  myself  before  I  left  Dumbarton, 
whether  I  should  go  back  to  London,  or  return  home,  or  pro¬ 
long  my  stay  in  Scotland,  thus  going  further  north  up  to  Loch 
Laggan,  where  Queen  Victoria  and  Prince  Albert  lived,  and 
by  whom,  as  a  letter  told  me,  I  should  be  graciously  received. 

My  stay  in  Scotland  was  not  such  a  rest  as  I  had  believed  ; 
I  was  not  much  strengthened,  after  having  spent  about  three 
weeks  here,  and  no  better  than  when  I  came  up.  Besides, 
well  informed  people,  as  I  believed  they  were,  told  me  that 
there  was  no  decent  inn  here  for  several  miles  ;  that  it  was 
necessary  for  me  to  engage  a  servant;  in  short,  that  I  should 
live  in  better  style  than  my  purse  would  allow.  To  write  to 
King  Christian  VIII.,  who  had  kindly  offered  to  support  me,  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  do,  as  I  had  verbally  declined  to 
accept  that  favor,  and  now  weeks  would  pass  before  I  could 
get  an  answer.  It  was  real  torture  !  I  wrote  a  letter  home, 
told  them  how  I  was,  and  that  I  thought  it  best  for  me  to  re¬ 
turn  home,  as  I  also  did,  but  I  was  obliged  thereby  to  refuse 
various  invitations  which  I  received  from  some  of  Scotland’s 
wealthy  nobility  to  visit  their  homes.  I  was  deprived  of  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Abbotsford,  to  which  place  I  had  a  letter 
nf  introduction.  Walter  Scott’s  son-in-law,  Lockhart,  whose 
guest  I  had  been  in  London,  had  received  me  very  kindly  and 
affectionately.  His  daughter,  the  grandfather’s  darling,  had 
told  me  of  her  dear  grandfather.  At  her  house  I  had  seen 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


321 


relics  which  had  belonged  to  the  great  poet,  —  his  magnificent 
life-like  picture,  as  he  sits  with  his  dog  Maida,  gazing  on  me. 
Miss  Lockhart  presented  me  a  fac-simile  of  him,  who  once  was 
called  the  Great  Unknown.  Abbotsford  had  to  be  given  up, 
as  also  Loch  Laggan,  and  I  returned  homeward  dejected, 
leaving  Glasgow  for  Edinburgh. 

I  must  tell  an  event,  in  itself  very  insignificant,  but  to  me  a 
new  hint  of  that  fortunate  star  which  shines  over  me  in  what  is 
little  as  well  as  great.  During  my  last  stay  in  Naples  I  had 
bought  a  plain  cane  made  of  palm,  which  had  accompanied  me 
on  my  travels,  and  thus  to  Scotland  also  ;  when  I  drove  with 
Hambro’s  family  over  the  heath  between  Loch  Katrine  and 
Loch  Lomond,  one  of  the  boys  had  taken  my  cane  to  play  with, 
and  when  we  came  within  sight  of  Loch  Lomond  he  lifted  it  up 
in  the  air  and  exclaimed  :  “  Palm,  do  you  see  the  highest  Scotch 
mountain  ?  Do  you  see  there  the  wide  sea  ?  ”  and  so  on  ;  and 
I  promised  that  the  cane,  when  it  should  again  visit  Naples 
with  me,  should  tell  his  comrades  about  the  land  of  mist, 
where  the  spirits  of  Ossian  lived,  —  of  the  land  where  the 
red  thistle-flower  was  honored,  set  sparkling  in  the  heraldic: 
arms,  for  people  and  land.  The  steamboat  arrived  sooner 
than  we  had  expected,  and  we  were  called  upon  in  a  hurry 
to  come  on  board.  “  Where  is  my  cane  ?  ”  I  asked.  It  had 
been  left  behind  in  the  inn  ;  when  the  boat  which  brought 
us  to  the  north  end  of  the  lake  returned,  I  requested  Mr. 
Pifggaard  when  he  went  ashore  to  take  the  cane  with  him 
to  Denmark.  I  arrived  in  Edinburgh,  and  in  the  morning 
I  stood  upon  the  platform  at  the  depot  waiting  to  go  from 
there  to  London,  when  the  train  from  the  north  arrived  a  few 
minutes  before  the  departure  of  our  train.  The  conductor 
alighted,  came  up  to  me,  seemed  to  know  me,  and  delivered 
me  my  cane,  while  he  smilingly  said,  “  It  has  travelled  very 
well  alone  !  ”  A  little  label  was  attached  to  it  with  the  in¬ 
scription,  “  The  Danish  poet,  Hans  Christian  Andersen  !  ”  and 
they  had  taken  such  care  of  it,  that  the  cane  had  passed  from 
hand  to  hand,  first  with  the  steamboat  on  Loch  Lomond,  then 
with  an  omnibus  conductor,  after  that  by  steamboat  again, 
and  now  by  a  railway  train,  only  by  means  of  its  little  address 
label  ;  it  reached  my  hands  just  as  the  signal  was  given 

21 


322 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIT* 


to  start.  I  am  still  under  obligation  to  tell  the  adventures  of 
the  cane  ;  I  wish  I  might  some  time  do  it  as  well  as  it  made, 
its  journey  alone  ! 

I  went  southward  by  way  of  Newcastle  and  York.  In  the 
carriage  I  met  the  English  author  Hook  and  his  wife  ;  the), 
knew  me  and  told  me  that  all  the  Scotch  newspapers  had 
mentioned  my  stay  with  the  queen  !  —  I,  who  had  never  been 
there  at  at  all  !  the  newspapers  knew  it,  and  one  of  them  said 
that  I  had  read  aloud  my  stories,  yet  not  a  word  of  it  was  true. 
I  bought  at  one  of  the  stations  the  most  recent  copy  of 
“  Punch.”  It  was  mentioned  there  ;  it  had  a  sally,  a  little 
remark  about  a  foreigner,  a  poet  from  abroad,  being  honored 
by  an  invitation  from  the  Queen,  that  had  never  been  bestowed 
on  any  English  author.  That  and  various  other  reports  of  a 
visit  which  never  was  realized,  tormented  me.  Speaking  of 
the  witty  paper,  “  Punch,”  one  of  my  fellow-travellers  said, 
“  That  it  was  a  sign  of  great  popularity  to  be  spoken  of  in  it, 
and  that  many  an  Englishman  would  pay  his  pounds  to  come 
to  that !  ”  I  would  rather  prefer  to  be  exempt  from  it  ;  low- 
spirited  and  depressed  by  the  publicity,  I  arrived  at  London 
almost  sick. 

I  remained  a  couple  of  days  in  London.  I  had  still 
not  seen  anything  there  but  high  life,  and  several  of  the 
country’s  most  excellent  men  and  women  ;  galleries,  museums, 
and  all  such  things  were  on  the  contrary  new  to  me  ;  I  had 
not  even  had  time  to  visit  the  Tunnel.  Early  one  morning  I 
decided  to  go  to  see  it  ;  I  was  advised  to  go  by  one  of  the 
many  small  steamers  which  are  running  up  and  down  the 
Thames  through  the  city,  but  I  felt  so  ill  just  as  I  started  out, 
that  I  gave  up  the  long  excursion  to  the  Tunnel,  and  it  may 
be  that  my  life  was  saved  thereby  ;  for  on  the  same  day,  and  at 
the  very  hour  I  was  to  have  gone  on  board,  one  of  the  steamers, 
the  Cricket ,  was  blown  up  with  one  hundred  passengers.  The 
report  of  the  disaster  was  immediately  spread  over  all  London, 
and  although  it  was  not  at  all  certain  that  I  should  have  gone 
by  just  this  boat,  still  the  possibility,  even  the  probability,  was 
so  near,  that  I  became  solemnly  and  gratefully  impressed  and 
thanked  my  God  for  the  illness  that  overcame  me  shortly  bo 
fore  the  moment  when  I  should  have  gone  on  board. 


THE  STqRY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


323 


Society  had  now  left  London,  the  opera  was  closed,  most  of 
my  best  friends  had  left  for  different  watering-places  or  for  the 
Continent.  I  longed  for  Denmark,  and  for  my  dear  ones 
there  ;  but  before  I  took  leave  of  England  I  was  invited  to 
spend  a  few  days  more  in  the  country,  at  “Seven  Oaks,”  at  the 
house  of  my  publisher,  Mr.  Richard  Bentley.  That  little  town, 
near  by  Knowle’s  renowned  park,  is  situated  not  far  from  the 
railway  to  the  English  Channel ;  it  was  for  me  then  a  very 
convenient  and  agreeable  visit  to  make  on  my  way  home.  I 
had  been  before  at  Seven  Oaks,  which  is  a  pretty  little  town. 
This  time  I  went  by  railway  to  Tunbridge,  where  Bentley’s 
carriage  was  sent  for  me.  Danish  nature  was  all  about  me  ; 
the  country  was  varied  with  beautiful  hills,  on  which  here  and 
there  stood  many  old  trees,  that  rendered  the  whole  land¬ 
scape  like  a  park  ;  hedges  or  an  iron  fence  formed  the  bound¬ 
ary.  Elegant  and  comfortable  rooms,  roses  and  evergreen  in 
the  garden,  close  by  the  celebrated  Knowle  Park,  whose  old 
castle  belongs  to  the  Earl  of  Amherst.  One  of  the  possess¬ 
or’s  ancestors  was  a  poet,  and  in  his  honor  one  of  the  saloons 
is  called  the  poet-saloon  ;  here  is  the  portrait  of  that  old, 
right  honorable  lord,  the  poet,  in  full  length,  and  the  por¬ 
traits  of  other  famous  poets  adorn  the  other  walls  as  if  for 
company  for  the  reigning  poet,  in  one  of  the  neighboring 
houses  was  a  costumer-shop,  just  like  the  old  curiosity  shop 
which  Dickens  has  painted  for  us  in  “  Master  Humphrey’s 
Clock.”  The  day  passed  away  like  a  feast  for  me  among 
those  kind  people  ;  I  became  familiar  with  that  genuine  old 
English,  excellent  family  life,  where  was  found  all  the  comfort 
that  wealth  and  kindness  can  create. 

How  much  I  needed  tranquillity  and  repose  after  the  great 
exertion  which  my  stay  in  England  and  Scotland  had  occa¬ 
sioned.  If  I  was  weary  and  exhausted,  still  I  felt,  and  how 
could  it  be  otherwise,  a  great  sadness  at  leaving  so  many  who 
had  offered  me  so  much  pleasure  and  done  me  so  much  good. 
Among  many  of  those  whom  I  loved  anc  should  not  see  again, 
at  least  for  a  long  time,  was  Charles  Dickens.  He  had,  since  our 
acquaintance  at  Lady  Blessington’s,  called  upon  me  without 
finding  me  at  home.  We  did  not  meet  again  in  London  ;  I  re¬ 
ceived  a  few  letters  from  him,  and  he  brought  me  all  his  works 


324 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


in  a  beautiful  illustrated  edition,  and  in  every  volume  honored 
me  by  writing  :  “  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  from  his  friend  and 
admirer,  Charles  Dickens.”  They  told  me  that  he  and  his 
wife  and  children  were  at  the  sea-side  somewhere  on  the  Chan¬ 
nel,  but  they  did  not  know  where.  I  resolved  to  go  from 
Ramsgate  by  way  of  Ostend,  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Dickens’s 
address,  hoping  that  it  would  find  him,  and  told  him  the  day 
and  hour  I  expected  to  ariive  at  Ramsgate,  and  asked  him  to 
give  his  address  in  the  hotel  I  was  to  stop  at ;  then  if  he  did 
not  live  too  far  away  I  would  come  and  see  him  and  once  more 
meet  him.  At  the  “  Royal  Oak  ”  was  a  letter  from  Dickens  ; 
he  lived  about  one  Danish  mile  from  there  at  Broadstairs,  and 
he  and  his  wife  expected  me  to  dinner  ;  I  look  a  carriage  and 
drove  to  that  little  town  near  the  sea.  Dickens  occupied  a 
whole  house  himself;  it  was  narrow  and  confined,  but  neat  and 
comfortable.  He  and  his  wife  received  me  in  a  very  kind 
manner.  It  was  so  pleasant  within  that  it  was  a  long  time  be¬ 
fore  I  perceived  how  beautiful  was  the  view  from  the  dining¬ 
room,  where  we  sat ;  the  windows  faced  the  Channel,  the 
open  sea  rolled  its  waves  beneath  them.  While  we  dined  the 
tide  ebbed  ;  the  falling  of  the  waters  was  very  rapid ;  the 
great  sands  where  so  many  shipwrecked  sailors’  bones  repose, 
rose  up  mightily,  the  lantern  in  the  light-house  was  lighted. 
We  talked  of  Denmark  and  Danish  literature,  of  Germany 
and  the  German  language,  which  Dickens  meant  to  learn  ; 
an  Italian  organ-grinder  happened  to  come  and  play  outside 
during  dinner ;  Dickens  spoke  Italian  with  the  man,  whose 
face  was  radiant  at  hearing  his  mother  tongue.  After  dinner 
the  children  were  brought  in.  “  We  have  plenty  of  them  !  ” 
said  Dickens  ;  there  were  no  less  than  five,  the  sixth  was  not 
at  home  ;  all  the  children  kissed  me,  and  the  youngest  one 
kissed  his  little  hand  and  threw  me  a  kiss.  When  the  coffee 
was  brought  in,  a  young  lady  came  as  guest.  “  She  is  one  of 
your  admirers,”  said  Dickens  to  me  ;  he  had  promised  to  in 
vite  her  when  I  came.  The  evening  passed  very  quicklv 
Mrs.  Dickens  seemed  to  be  of  about  the  same  age  as  her  hu» 
band,  a  little  fleshy,  and  with  such  a  very  honest  and  good 
'looking  countenance  that  one  would  immediately  feel  confi¬ 
dence  in  her.  $he  was  a  great  admirer  of  Jenny  Lind,  and 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


3^5 


wished  much  to  have  a  bit  of  her  handwriting,  but  it  was 
very  difficult  to  get.  I  had  by  me  the  little  letter  Jenny  Lind 
•  had  sent  me  on  my  arrival  in  London,  to  bid  me  welcome  and 
to  tell  me  where  she  lived  ;  I  gave  this  now  to  Mrs.  Dickens. 
We  parted  late  in  the  evening,  and  Dickens  promised  that  he 
would  write  to  me  in  Denmark.  But  we  were  to  meet  each 
other  again  before  my  departure,  for  Dickens  surprised  me  by 
coming  to  Ramsgate  the  following  morning,  and  was  on  the 
quay  when  I  went  on  board.  “  I  wished  to  bid  you  farewell 
once  more  !  ”  said  he,  and  accompanied  me  on  board,  remain¬ 
ing  by  me  until  the  bell  gave  the  signal  for  departure.  We 
shook  hands,  he  looked  with  his  earnest  eyes  into  mine,  and 
when  the  ship  started  he  stood  on  the  very  edge  of  the  quay, 
so  sturdy,  so  youthful,  and  handsome  !  He  waved  his  hat. 
Dickens  was  the  last  one  who  gave  me  a  friend’s  greeting 
from  the  dear  English  coast. 

I  landed  at  Ostend.  The  first  persons  I  met  were  the  King 
of  Belgium  and  his  wife  ;  they  received  my  first  salutation,  and 
reciprocated  it  kindly  ;  I  did  not  know  any  other  person  there. 
The  same  day  I  went  on  the  railway  to  Ghent.  There,  early 
in  the  morning,  while  I  was  waiting  for  the  railway  train  to 
Cologne,  several  travellers  came  and  presented  themselves  to 
me,  saying  that  they  knew  me  from  my  portrait.  An  Eng¬ 
lish  family  approached  me  ;  one  of  the  ladies  came  up  to  me  ; 
she  was  an  authoress,  as  she  told  me,  had  been  a  few  times  in 
London  in  society  with  me,  but  I  was  then,  she  said,  quite 
surrounded  and  monopolized  ;  she  had  besought  Reventlow 
to  present  her  to  me,  but  he  had  answered,  “  You  see  that  it 
is  impossible  !”  I  laughed  ;  it  really  was  the  case.  I  was  in 
the  fashion  as  long  as  it  lasted  ;  now  I  was  entirely  at  her  ser¬ 
vice.  She  was  natural  and  kind,  and  I  thanked  my  propi¬ 
tious  star  that  I  was  so  renowned.  “  How  little  it  is  !  ”  said 
I,  and  added,  “  and  how  long  will  it  last  ?  ”  But  still  it  has 
given  me  pleasure,  although  there  is  anxiety  in  being  lifted  so 
high,  not  knowing  whether  one  can  keep  his  place  !  I  was  very 
thankful  for  all  the  honor  and  prosperity  I  had  acquired  ; 
through  all  Germany,  where  they  had  read  of  the  honor  I  had 
found  in  England,  great  kindness  and  esteem  was  shown  me. 
At  Hamburg  I  met  vith  countrymen  of  both  sexes  :  — 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


326 

“  My  God  !  Andersen,  are  you  here  ?  ”  was  the  ret  eption ; 
“  nay,  you  cannot  believe  what  immense  fun  “The  Corsair  ”  has 
made  of  your  stay  in  England  ;  you  are  represented  with  lau¬ 
rel-wreath  and  purses  !  My  God,  how  funny  it  is  !  ”  I  reached 
Copenhagen  ;  a  few  hours  after  my  arrival  I  was  standing 
at  my  window,  when  two  well-dressed  gentlemen  passed  by  ; 
they  perceived  me,  laughed,  and  one  of  them  pointed  at  me, 
and  said  so  loud  that  I  could  heaf  every  word,  — 

“  See,  there  stands  our  orang-outang  so  famous  abroad !  ” 
It  was  rude  —  it  was  wicked  —  it  reached  my  heart  —  and 
will  never  be  forgotten  ! 

I  met  also  with  sympathizing  friends,  —  many  who  were 
glad  of  the  honor  which  had  been  shown  me,  and  the  Danish 
nation  through  me,  in  skillful  Holland  and  rich  England. 
One  of  our  older  authors  grasped  me  kindly  by  my  hand,  and 
said  frankly  and  beautifully,  “  I  have  not  before  rightly  read 
your  works,  now  I  will  do  it.  People  have  spoken  harshly  of 
you,  but  you  are  something,  must  be  something  more  than 
people  here  at  home  will  allow ;  the  manner  in  which  you 
are  received  in  England  is  such  as  would  not  befall  an  in¬ 
significant  man  !  I  honestly  confess  that  I  have  now  another 
opinion  of  you  ” 

One  of  my  dearest  friends  told  me,  however,  something 
quite  different,  and  proved  it  too  in  writing.  He  had  sent 
to  one  of  our  prominent  editors  some  English  newspapers, 
in  which  mention  was  made  of  the  honor  I  enjoyed  in  Lon¬ 
don,  and  also  gave  a  very  kind  review  of  “  The  True  Story 
of  my  Life.”  But  the  man  would  not  print  what  was  said 
about  me,  because,  he  said,  “  People  would  think  that  they 
made  a  fool  of  Andersen  in  England  !  ”  He  would  not  be¬ 
lieve  it,  and  he  knew  that  most  of  my  countrymen  would  not 
believe  it  either.  One  of  the  newspapers  reported  Tiat  I 
had  received  money  from  the  state  for  my  journey,  and  there¬ 
fore  it  was  easy  to  understand  how  I  could  travel  every  year. 
I  told  King  Christian  VIII.  what  was  written  about  me. 

“You  have  —  what  I  think  few  would  have  done,”  —  said 
he,  “refused  my  honest  offer!  They  are  unjust  toward  you 
at  home  !  They  do  not  know  you  !  ” 

The  first  little  book  I  wrote  after  mv  return,  a  volume  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


327 

stories,  I  sent  to  England ;  they  were  published  at  Christmas 
time  :  “  A  Christmas  Greeting  to  my  English  Friends;  ”  it  was 
dedicated  thus  to  Charles  Dickens  :  — 

“  I  am  again  in  my  quiet  Danish  home,  but  my  thoughts 
are  daily  in  dear  England,  where,  a  few  months  ago,  my  many 
friends  transformed  for  me  reality  into  a  charming  story. 

“  Whilst  occupied  with  a  greater  work,  there  sprung  forth  — 
as  the  flowers  spring  forth  in  the  forest  —  seven  short  stories. 

I  feel  a  desire,  a  longing,  to  transplant  in  England  the  first 
produce  of  my  poetic  garden,  as  a  Christmas  greeting  ;  and  I 
send  it  to  you,  my  dear,  noble  Charles  Dickens,  who  by  your 
works  had  been  previously  dear  to  me,  and  since  our  meeting 
have  taken  root  forever  in  my  heart. 

“  Your  hand  was  the  last  that  pressed  mine  on  England’s 
coast  ;  it  was  you  who  from  her  shores  wafted  me  the  last 
farewell.  It  is  therefore  natural  that  I  should  send  to  you, 
from  Denmark,  my  first  greeting  again,  as  sincerely  as  an 
affectionate  heart  can  convey  it. 

*  “  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 

“  Copenhagen,  6th  December ,  1847.” 

The  little  book  was  extremely  well  received  and  flatteringly 
loticed.  Yet  what  brightened  my  soul  and  heart  like  a  true 
sunbeam,  was  the  first  letter  from  Dickens,  in  which  he  sent 
me  his  thanks  and  greeting.  His  affectionate  nature  shines  • 
forth  and  breathes  a  goodness  toward  me  that  makes  me  rich. 
Having  before  shown  you  all  my  best  treasures,  why  should  I 
not  show  you  this  ?  Dickens  will  not  misunderstand  me. 

“  A  thousand  thanks,  my  dear  Andersen,  for  your  kind 
and  very  valuable  recollection  of  me  in  your  Christmas  book. 

I  am  very  proud  of  it,  and  feel  deeply  honored  by  it ;  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  much  I  value  such  a  token  of  acknowledgment 
from  a  man  with  the  genius  which  you  are  possessed  of. 

“  Your  book  made  my  Christmas  hearth  very  happy.  We 
are  all  enchanted  by  it.  The  little  boy,  the  old  man,  and 
the  tin-soldier  are  especially  my  favorites.  I  have  repeatedly 
read  that  story,  and  read  it  with  the  most  unspeakable  pleasure. 

“  I  was  a  few  days  ago  at  Edinburgh,  where  I  saw  some  of 
your  friends,  who  talked  much  about  you.  Come  again  to 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


328 

England,  soon  !  But  whatever  you  do,  do  net  stop  writing, 
because  we  cannot  bear  to  lose  a  single  one  of  your  thoughts 
They  are  too  true  and  simply  beautiful  to  be  kept  safe  only  in 
your  own  head. 

“  We  returned  some  time  since  from  the  sea-coast  where  I 
bade  you  adieu,  and  are  now  at  our  own  house.  My  wife  tells 
me  that  I  must  give  you  her  kind  greetings.  Her  sister  tells 
me  the  same.  The  same  say  all  my  children.  And  as  we  have 
all  the  same  sentiments,  I  beg  you  to  receive  the  summary  in 
an  affectionate  greeting  from  your  sincere  and  admiring  friend, 

“  Charles  Dickens. 

“To  Hans  Christian  Andersen.” 

My  poem,  “  Ahasuerus,”  appeared  that  Christmas  in  ' Dan 
ish  and  German.  Several  years  before,  when  I  entertained 
the  idea  of  that  poem,  Oehlenschlager  spoke  to  me  about  it. 
“  How  is  it  ?  ”  said  he  :  “  they  say  that  you  are  writing  a  drama 
of  the  world,  with  the  history  of  all  times  ;  I  cannot  under¬ 
stand  it !  ”  I  explained  to  him  the  idea  as  I  have  also  ex¬ 
pressed  it  earlier  in  these  pages.  “  But  in  what  form  will 
you  be  able  to  do  all  that  ?  ”  he  asked. 

“  I  use  alternately  the  lyric,  epic,  and  dramatic,  —  now  in 
verse  and  now  in  prose  !  ” 

“  You  cannot  do  that !  ”  exclaimed  the  great  poet  passion¬ 
ately.  “  I  also  know  something  of  making  poems  !  There  is 
something  which  is  called  form  and  limit,  and  these  must  be 
respected  !  Green  wood  has  its  place  and  burned  coals  theirs  ! 
What  answer  have  you  for  that  ?  ” 

“I  certainly  have  an  answer!”  said  I  kindly,  although  I 
was  possessed  to  treat  the  matter  jestingly.  “  I  can  certainly 
answer  you,  but  you  will  becofhe  angry  if  I  say  what  is  in  my 
mind  !  ” 

“  Indeed,  I  shall  not  take  it  ill  !  ”  said  he. 

“  Well,  to  show  you  that  I  really  have  an  answer,  I  will 
keep  to  your  words,  —  the  green  wood  by  itself  and  the  burned 
coals  by  themselves.  Now  go  on  and  say  the  sulphur  by  itself 
and  the  saltpetre  by  itself ;  but  then  there  would  come  one 
who  mixed  all  those  parts  together,  and  —  so  he  has  invented 
gunpowder.” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


329 


“  Andersen  !  it  is  dreadful  to  hear  that  expression,  —  to  in* 
vent  gunpowder  !  You  are  a  good  man,  but  you  are,  as  all  say, 
too  vain  !” — “But  does  not  that  belong  to  the  trade?”  the 
frolicsome  demon  of  humor  prompted  me  to  answer.  “  The 
trade  !  the  trade  !  ”  repeated  the  good  poet,  who  did  not  now 
understand  me  at  all.  When  “  Ahasuerus  ”  was  published  he 
read  it,  and  wishing  to  know  if  he  now  had  altered  his  earlier 
opinion  of  it,  he  wrote  me  a  yery  well  meant  and  sincere  letter 
in  which  he  told  me  candidly  how  little  the  poem  pleased  him, 
and  as  his  words  at  all  times  have  an  interest,  and  as  several 
others  have  also  looked  upon  my  poem  in  the  same  way,  I 
shall  not  conceal  his  judgment :  — 

“  My  dear  Andersen,  —  I  have  always  acknowledged 
and  esteemed  your  fine  talent  in  relating  naturally  and  ingen¬ 
iously  stories  that  have  originality,  as  also  in  painting  in  the 
novel  and  in  the  account  of  travels  the  life  which  you  meet 
with.  I  have  been  pleased,  too,  with  your  talent  in  the  drama, 
for  instance  in  ‘The  Mulatto,’  although  the  subject  was  already 
given  and  poetically  elaborated,  and  its  beauties  were  mostly 
lyric.  But  a  couple  of  years  ago,  when  you  read  something 
to  me,  I  gave  you  honestly  to  understand  that  the  plan  and 
form  of  the  poem  did  not  please  me  at  all.  Notwithstanding 
that,  you  seemed  to  be  disagreeably  surprised  when  I  last 
talked  with  you,  at  my  repeating  it ;  remarking  that  after 
all  I  only  read  a  little  of  the  book.  I  have  now  perused  it 
with  attention  throughout,  and  cannot  change  my  opinion. 
The  book  makes  an  unpleasant  impression  upon  me  :  you 
must  excuse  my  speaking  so  frankly.  You  ask  me  to  tell  you 
my  opinion  ;  and  I  am  obliged  to  tell  it  to  you,  when  I  would  not 
put  you  off  falsely  with  fair  words.  As  far  as  I  understand 
dramatic  composition,  ‘Ahasuerus’  is  no  subject  fora  drama 
and  therefore  Goethe  wisely  gave  it  up. 

“  The  wonderful  legend  ought  to  be  treated  in  a  humorous 
manner  as  a  wonder  story.  He  was  a  shoemaker,  but  a 
shoemaker  that  went  beyond  his  last,  and  was  too  proud 
not  to  believe  what  he  could  not  comprehend.  In  making 
him  an  abstract  idea  of  speculative  poetry,  you  cannot  make 
him  an  object  of  true  poetry,  still  less  of  a  drama.  A  drama 


330 


THL  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


requires  necessarily  a  contracted,  completed  action,  that  may 
be  held  in  the  mind,  and  is  expressed  and  unfolded  by  char* 
acter.  This  is  not  the  case  with  your  piece.  ‘  Ahasuerus  ’  is 
presented  throughout  as  a  retiring  and  contemplating  spec¬ 
tator.  The  other  personages  act  as  little  ;  the  whole  poem 
consists  of  lyric  aphorisms,  fragments,  sometimes  of  naira- 
tive,  all  loosely  combined.  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  tco 
much  of  pretension  and  too  little  of  efficacy  in  the  poem.  It 
includes  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  whole  history  of  the 
world  from  the  birth  of  Christ  till  our  time.  For  those  who 
profoundly  and  truly  have  studied  history,  with  all  its  grand 
scenes  and  excellent  characters,  there  can  be  no  satisfaction 
in  regarding  those  lyric  aphorisms  of  hobgoblins,  swallows, 
nightingales,  mermaids,  etc.  Of  course  there  are  some  beau¬ 
tiful  lyric  or  descriptive  passages,  e.  g.,  ‘The  Gladiators,5 
‘The  Huns,’  ‘The  Savages;’  but  that  is  not  enough.  The 
whole  is  like  a  dream  ;  your  natural  propensity  for  writing 
stories  is  also  visible  here,  because  all  images  are  represented 
almost  as  wondrous  visions.  The  genius  of  history  is  not 
presented  in  its  great  variety ;  thought  has  too  little  place; 
the  images  are  not  new,  nor  are  they  original  enough  ;  there  is 
nothing  that  touches  the  heart ;  on  the  contrary,  in  ‘  Barna¬ 
bas  ’  there  is  something  unnatural  in  the  way  he  comes,  after 
his  crime,  to  honor  and  dignity,  for  no  action  nor  develop¬ 
ment  of  character  are  seen  in  him  ;  we  onlv  hear  it  said  that 
he  formerly  murdered  an  old  woman,  and  then  there  is  joy  in 
heaven  over  his  conversion.  That  is  now  my  opinion  !  Per¬ 
haps  I  fail,  but  I  speak  honestly  on  conviction,  and  cannot 
change  my  judgment  for  politeness  or  flattery !  Pardon  me 
if  I  have  innocently  grieved  you,  and  be  assured  that  for  the 
rest  I  acknowledge  and  regard  you  as  an  original  poet,  full  of 
genius  in  other  directions.  “Truly  yours, 


u  Decmiber  23,  1847.” 


“  A.  Oehlenschlagek. 


There  is  much  truth  and  justice  in  this  letter  about  my 
poem,  but  I  regard  my  work  otherwise  than  the  noble  great 
poet  has  done.  I  have  not  called  “  Ahasuerus  ”  a  dramaiit 
poem,  and  it  ought  not  at  all  to  be  placed  in  that  style  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


JO1 

poetry ;  there  is  not  and  cannot  be  either  the  dramatic  in* 
cident  or  its  accompaniment  of  character-painting.  “  Ahasu- 
erus  ”  is  a  poem  which  in  a  changing  form  is  intended  to 
express  the  idea  that  mankind  rejects  the  divine,  but  still 
proceeds  toward  perfection.  I  have  tried  to  represent  it 
shortly,  clearly,  and  richly,  believing  that  I  should  best  attain 
that  by  changing  the  form  ;  the  historical  tops  of  mountain 
have  served  me  as  scenery.  It  should  not  be  compared  with 
a  drama  of  Scribe  or  an  epos  of  Milton  :  the  aphoristic  sim¬ 
plicities  are  like  mosaic  blocks  ;  the  pieces  taken  together  form 
the  entire  image.  We  can  say  of  any  building  that  we  see  it 
stone  by  stone  ;  each  one  may  be  taken  separately,  but  it  is 
not  so  that  we  should  look  at  them  but  as  an  entirety  pro¬ 
duced  by  the  combination  of  parts. 

In  later  years  many  opinions  have  been  expressed  con¬ 
cerning  the  poem,  which  agree  with  my  belief  that  it  always  will 
mark  a  transition-point  in  my  poetic  life.  The  first,  and  I  must 
almost  say  the  only  one,  who  was  immediately  and  highly 
touched  by  my  poem,  was  the  historian  Ludwig  Muller,  who 
considered  “  Ahasuerus  ”  and  “  Wonder  Stories  ”  as  the  two 
books  which  gave  me  position  in  Danish  literature. 

From  abroad  a  similar  acknowledgment  has  reached  me. 
In  “  The  Picture-hall  of  the  World’s  Literature,”  where  there 
is  a  considerable  collection  of  lyric  and  dramatic  poetry  from 
all  countries,  —  from  Hebrew  psalms  and  Arabian  folk-songs 
to  the  troubadours  and  the  poets  of  our  days,  —  the  section 
“  Scandinavian  ”  contained  of  Danish  authors,  besides  scenes 
of  “  Hakon  Jarl,”  “  King  Rene’s  Daughter,”  and  “Tiber,”  a 
few  scenes  also  from  “  Ahasuerus.” 

Just  as  I  finish  these  pages,  eight  years  after  the  first  pub¬ 
lication  of  the  poem,  a  well  disposed  and  profound  critic  of 
my  collected  writings  has  favored  “  Ahasuerus”  in  the  “  Danish 
Monthly  ”  with  a  greater  attention  than  before  ;  it  is  recog¬ 
nized  as  what  I  myself  considered  it  to  be,  a  running  ony 
tthich  points  at  my  fu'  ure  development  as  a  poet 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


HE  year  1848  rolled  up  its  curtain,  —  a  remarkable  yeai 


JL  a  volcanic  year,  when  the  heavy  waves  of  time  washed 
also  over  our  country  with  the  blood  of  war.  During  the  first 
days  of  January,  King  Christian  VIII.  was  sick  ;  the  last 
time  I  saw  him  was  on  an  evening  ;  I  received  a  note  inviting 
me  to  tea,  and  asking  me  to  bring  something  or  other  to  read 
for  his  Majesty.  Besides  his  Majesty  I  found  here  the  Queen, 
a  lady  of  honor,  and  a  courtier.  The  King  greeted  me  very 
tenderly,  but  was  obliged  to  lie  down  on  the  sofa ;  I  read  for 
him  a  couple  of  chapters  from  my  unfinished  novel,  “The 
Two  Baronesses,”  and  besides  that  two  or  three  stories  ;  the 
King  seemed  very  animated,  and  laughed  and  talked  in  a 
lively  fashion.  When  I  took  leave  he  nodded  kindly  to  me 
from  his  couch,  and  the  last  words  I  heard  him  say  were : 
“  We  shall  soon  meet  again.”  But  we  did  not.  He  grew 
very  ill  ;  I  felt  a  restlessness  and  anxiety  at  fear  of  losing 
him,  and  went  every  day  out  to  Amalienburg  to  ask  after  his 
state  of  health  ;  we  heard  soon  that  he  was  surely  going  to 
die  ;  I  went  in  grief  with  the  news  to  Oehlenschlager,  who 
very  strangely  had  not  heard  that  the  King’s  life  was  in 
danger  ;  he  saw  my  affliction  and  burst  into  tears  ;  he  was 
most  intimately  attached  to  the  King. 

In  the  forenoon  of  the  next  day  I  met  Oehlenschlager  at 
Amalienburg,  leaning  on  Christiani,  coming  out  from  the 
antechamber.  Oehlenschlager  was  pale ;  he  did  not  say  a 
vord,  pressed  my  hand  in  passing,  and  tears  were  in  his  eyes. 
The  King  was  almost  given  up.  The  twentieth  of  January  I 
went  out  there  several  times  ;  I  stood  in  the  evening  in  the 
snow  and  looked  up  at  the  windows,  where  the  King  withir 
was  dying.  At  a  quarter  past  ten  he  departed.  The  next 
morning  people  were  standing  before  the  palace  :  within  Chris¬ 
tian  VIII.  lay  dead  !  I  went  home  and  wept  bitterly  and 


TILE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


333 

tenderly  for  him,  whom  I  loved  unspeakably,  and  now  was  iost 
for  me  in  this  world. 

The  whole  city  of  Copenhagen  was  in  motion  ;  a  new  order 
of  things  was  developing.  On  the  twenty-eighth  of  January 
the  Constitution  was  announced.  Christian  VIII.  lav  on  lit 

j 

de parade ;  I  came  there,  I  saw  him,  and  became  so  painfully 
touched  that  I  was  taken  ill  and  carried  into  one  of  the  side 
rooms.  The  twenty-fifth  of  February  the  King’s  corpse  was 
brought  to  Roeskilde  ;  I  sat  at  home  and  listened  to  the  toll 
ing  of  the  church  bells.  Great  changes  were  p  issing  ovei 
Europe  :  the  revolution  broke  out  in  Paris  ;  Louis  Philippe  with 
his  family  left  France ;  like  heavy  seas  the  revolt  went  through 
the  cities  of  Germany  ;  at  home  we  still  only  read  of  such 
things.  Here  only  was  a  home  of  peace  !  here  we  could  still 
breathe  freely  and  enjoy  art,  the  drama,  and  all  that  was  beauti¬ 
ful.  But  peace  did  not  last  long,  the  heavy  swells  reached  us 
also.  The  uproar  broke  out  in  Holstein.  Rumor  struck  here 
and  there  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  and  all  was  in  motion.  A 
very  great  mass  of  people  was  gathered  in  the  large  Casino- 
hall,  and  next  morning  a  deputation  waited  upon  the  King  :  I 
stood  at  the  open  place  before  the  palace  and  looked  at  the 
great  multitude.  The  King’s  answer  was  soon  known  in  the 
city,  as  also  the  dismission  of  the  ministry.  I  became  aware 
how  differently  the  events  were  regarded  in  different  circles. 
Great  companies  of  people  crowded  the  streets  night  arid  day, 
singing  national  songs  ;  no  excesses  happened,  but  it  was 
rather  unpleasant  to  meet  those  almost  strange  people,  those 
unknown  faces  ;  it  was  as  if  an  entirely  new  race  had  come 
forth.  Several  friends  of  order  and  peace  joined  the  crowd 
of  people  in  order  to  lead  them  from  wrong  ways.  I  was  ap¬ 
pointed  one  of  the  committee  of  peace,  and  often,  when  the 
crowd  cried  out  the  name  of  a  place  where  they  perhaps  would 
have  committed  some  excess,  a  single  one  of  us  needed  only 
to  repeat  “  Straight  forward  !  ”  and  the  whole  crowd  would 
move  forward  !  The  public  sang  in  the  theatres,  and  the 
orchestra  plaved  national  songs.  It  was  announced  that  the 
city  was  to  be  illuminated,  and  strangely  enough,  those  who 
were  the  least  well  disposed  towarvf  the  new  ministry  illumi¬ 
nated  their  houses,  for  fear  of  getting  their  windows  cracked 


334 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


The  Sleswick  deputies  came  to  Copenhagen ;  the  rage 
against  them  was  great,  but  the  King  announced  in  his  procla¬ 
mation  :  “  We  trust  to  the  honor  of  our  Danish  people  the 
safety  of  the  Sleswick-Holstein  deputies  !  ”  The  students  pre¬ 
served  peace ;  they  went  round  in  the  crowd  and  spoke 
ft  iendly  words.  Soldiers  were  drawn  up  in  the  streets,  that  the 
deputies  might  safely  walk  down  to  the  steamship  ;  the  mass 
of  people  was  here  awaiting  them,  but  meantime  the  deputies 
were  led  from  the  palace  to  the  canal  behind  it,  and  from 
there  to  the  custom-house,  where  without  being  observed  they 
went  on  board. 

Preparations  for  war  were  made  by  land  and  by  sea.  Every 
one  aided  as  well  as  he  could.  One  of  our  officers  came 
to  me  and  said  that  it  would  be  well  if  I  were  to  defend  our 
cause  through  the  English  press,  where  I  was  known  and 
read.  I  wrote  immediately  to  Mr.  Jerdan,  the  editor  of  the 
“  Literary  Gazette,”  where  my  letter,  a  true  account  of  the 
tone  and  situation  at  home,  was  immediately  published. 

“  Copenhagen,  13  April ,  1848. 

“  Dear  Friend,  —  A  few  weeks  only  have  elapsed  since  I 
wrote  to  you,  and  in  the  history  of  time  lies  a  range  of  events, 
as  if  years  had  passed.  Politics  has  never  been  my  business  ; 
poets  have  another  mission  ;  but  now,  when  convulsions  are 
shaking  the  countries,  so  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  stand 
upon  the  ground  without  feeling  it  to  the  very  ends  of  the 
fingers,  we  must  speak  of  it.  You  know  how  momentous  it  is 
in  Denmark  ;  we  have  war  !  but  a  war  carried  on  by  the  en¬ 
tire  animated  Danish  people,  —  a  war  where  noble-born  and 
peasant,  inspired  by  a  righteous  cause,  place  themselves  vol¬ 
untarily  in  the  ranks  of  battle  ;  an  enthusiasm  and  patriotism 
fill  and  elevate  the  whole  Danish  nation.  The  false  light  in 
which  the  leaders  of  the  Sleswick-Holstein  party  have  for 
many  years  through  German  newspapers  brought  us  before 
the  honest  German  people ;  the  manner  in  which  the  Prince 
of  Noer  has  taken  Rendsborg,  saying  that  the  Danish  king 
was  not  free,  and  that  it  was  in  his  royal  interest  he  acted,  — 
all  this  has  excited  the  Danes,  and  the  people  as  one  man  have 
risen  :  all  small  matters  of  every-day  life  give  place  to  great 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


335 


and  noble  traits.  All  is  in  motion,  but  with  order  and  union : 
contributions  of  money  are  flowing  in  freely  from  all  ranks 
and  classes,  even  the  poor  journeyman  and  servant-girl  bring 
their  share.  It  was  heard  that  horses  were  wanting,  and  in  a 
few  days  so  many  of  them  were  sent  from  city  and  country 
that  the  Minister  of  War  has  been  obliged  to  publish  that  he 
did  not  require  any  more.  In  all  the  houses  women  are  pick¬ 
ing  lint ;  in  the  upper  classes  of  the  schools  boys  are  occupied 
in  making  cartridges  ;  most  of  those  who  are  able  to  bear  arms, 
exercise  themselves  in  the  use  of  them.  Young  counts  and 
barons  place  themselves  as  subalterns  in  the  ranks  of  the  sol¬ 
diers,  and  you  may  comprehend  that  the  soldiers’  courage  and 
enthusiasm  are  strengthened  by  the  knowledge  that  all  stand 
alike  in  love  and  defense  of  the  father-land. 

“  Among  the  volunteers  is  also  the  son  of  the  Governor  of 
Norway,  —  a  young  man,  who  belongs  to  one  of  the  first  fami¬ 
lies.  He  was  here  on  a  visit  last  winter,  and,  carried  away  by 
our  honest  cause,  he  wished  to  share  in  the  combat,  but  as  a 
foreigner  he  could  not  be  admitted  ;  he  then  immediately 
bought  a  Danish  house,  presented  himself  as  a  Danish  citizen, 
put  on  the  soldier’s  jacket,  and  marched  off  as  a  subaltern 
with  one  of  the  regiments,  decided  to  live  on  his  hard  tack 
and  his  wages,  twelve  Danish  shillings  a  day,  and  to  share 
his  comrades’  lot.  And  like  him  Danish  men  of  all  classes 
have  done  the  same  ;  the  gentleman  and  the  student,  the  rich 
and  the  poor,  all  go  together,  singing  and  rejoicing  as  to  a 
festival  !  Our  King  himself  has  gone  to  the  army’s  head¬ 
quarters  ;  he  is  Danish  and  honest-minded  for  his  righteous 
cause.  He  is  surrounded  by  his  life-guard,  consisting  partly 
of  Holsteiners  ;  those  were  at  the  departure  exempted  from 
going  against  their  countrymen,  but  every  one  of  them  begged 
as  a  favor  to  be  allowed  to  go,  and  it  was  granted. 

u  Until  this  moment  and  we  hope  further  our  Lord  is  with 
us.  The  army  goes  quickly  ancl  victoriously  forward  :  the 
island  of  Als  is  taken,  as  also  the  towns  of  Flensborg  and 
Sleswick  ;  we  stand  at  the  boundary  of  Holstein,  and  have 
taken  more  than  a  thousand  prisoners  ;  the  most  part  of  them 
are  brought  here  to  Copenhagen,  very  enraged  against  the 
prince  of  Noer,  who,  notwithstanding  his  promise  to  sacrifice 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


336 

his  life  and  blood  with  them,  left  them  in  the  first  battle,  —  left 
# 

them  when  the  Danes  with  gunshots  and  bayonets  entered 
Flensborg  by  force.  At  the  present  time  the  storms  of  change 
sweep  through  the  countries,  but  the  one  above  all  of  them, 
the  righteous  God,  does  not  change  !  He  is  for  Denmark, — 
that  great  Will  which  is  right,  and  which  shall  and  must  be 
acknowledged  ;  truth  is  the  victorious  power  of  all  people  and 
nations. 

1  For  the  nationalities,  their  rights ;  for  honest  and  good 
men,  all  prosperity  !  ’  That  is  and  must  be  Europe’s  watch¬ 
word,  and  with  it  I  look  trustingly  forward.  The  Germans 
are  an  honest,  truth-loving  people  ;  they  will  come  to  see 
more  clearly  into  our  situation,  and  their  enmity  will  and  must 
be  changed  into  esteem  and  friendship  :  may  that  thought 
soon  come  !  May  God  make  his  countenance  to  shine  over 
the  countries  !  “  Hans  Christian  Andersen.” 

The  letter  was  one  among  the  very  few  that  went  through 

* 

several  of  the  newspapers  abroad.  I  felt  more  than  ever  before 
how  firmly  I  had  grown  to  the  native  soil  and  how  Danish 
was  my  heart  ;  I  could  have  taken  my  place  in  the  soldiers’ 
ranks,  and  gladly  have  given  my  life  an  offering  to  victory  and 
peace,  but  at  the  same  time  the  thought  came  vividly  over  me 
how  much  good  I  had  enjoyed  in  Germany,  the  great  acknowl¬ 
edgment  w'hich  my  talent  there  had  received,  and  the  many 
single  persons  whom  I  there  loved  and  was  grateful  to.  I  suf¬ 
fered  infinitely  !  and  when  sometimes  one  or  another  excited 
mind  expressed  itself  in  anger  and  harshness,  seeking  to  break 
down  that  feeling  in  me,  then  it  was  ofttn  more  than  I  could 
bear  1  I  will  not  here  offer  any  examples  of  these  words  ;  1  hope 
the  best,  that  all  bitter  wTords  from  that  time  may  disappear, 
and  the  wound  be  healed  between  these  kindred  people  !  H. 
C.  Orsted  here  again  raised  my  spirits,  and  predicted  a  new 
spirit  toward  me,  which  has  come  indeed.  There  wras  con 
cord,  there  was  love  ;  many  of  my  voung  friends  went  out  as 
volunteers,  among  them  Valdemar  Drewsen  and  Baron  Henry 
Stampe.  Orsted  was  strongly  touched  at  the  progress  of 
events  ;  he  wrote  in  one  of  our  daily  newspapers  three  poems* 
“  The  Combat,”  “  Victory,”  and  “  Peace.” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


337 


To  put  on  the  red  jacket  was  in  former  days  a  step  taken 
only  in  desperation  ;  the  soldier  was  then  but  a  poor. fellow: 
now  the  red  jacket  came  suddenly  into  esteem  and  honor; 
ladies  in  silk  and  gauze  walked  with  the  red-jacketed  soldier. 
The  first  one  I  saw  of  high  rank  was  Lovenskjold,  the  Nor¬ 
wegian  Governor’s  son,  and  also  the  young  Count  Adam 
Knuth,  who  had  very  recently  been  confirmed.  He  lost  one 
of  his  limbs  by  a  minie  ball.  Lovenskjold  fell,  as  also  the 
painter  Lundbye,  but  the  last  one  died  from  an  accidental 
shot.  I  heard  of  it  from  an  eye-witness.  Lundbye  stood 
leaning  in  a  melancholy  manner  on  his  musket ;  some  peasants 
passed  by  where  other  muskets  near  him  were  placed,  and 
they  happened  to  knock  them  down  ;  a  shot  was  heard,  and 
Lundbye  was  seen  falling  to  the  ground  ;  he  was  shot  through 
the  jaw,  the  mouth  was  torn  open,  and  a  piece  of  flesh  with 
the  beard  on  shot  away  :  he  uttered  some  feeble  sighs  ;  was 
wrapped  up  in  a  Dannebrog-flag,  and  laid  in  the  earth. 

These  young  men’s  enthusiasm  moved  me  to  tears,  and 
one  day,  hearing  a  jest  of  some  young  gentlemen,  who  before 
used  to  sport  kid  gloves,  but  now  as  pioneers  were  digging  at 
rrenches  with  red,  blistered  hands,  I  rushed  up  and  exclaimed 
tom  my  very  heart,  “I  should  like  to  kiss  those  hands!” 
Almost  every  day  troops  of  young  men  were  marching  off.  I 
accompanied  a  young  friend,  and  coming  home  I  wrote  the 
song,  — 

“  I  cannot  stay,  I  have  no  rest  !  ” 

It  was  soon  was  taken  up  as  a  popular  song  and  was  really  stir¬ 
ring  to  hear. 

“The  Easter  bell  chimed”  —  the  unfortunate  Easter  Day 
of  Sleswick  rose  :  the  hostile  forces  divided  ours ;  heavy 
grief  was  spread  over  the  country  ;  but  courage  was  not  lost, 
strength  became  more  concentrated,  men  were  knit  closer  to 
one  another  ;  this  appeared  as  well  in  great  as  in  small  things. 
The  Prussians  entered  Jutland  ;  our  troops,  Als.  In  the  middle 
of  May  I  went  to  Funen,  and  found  the  whole  manor  of  Glorup 
filled  with  our  troops  ;  their  head-quarters  was  in  Odense.  At 
Glorup  were  forty  men,  besides  several  high  officers  ;  General 
Hedemann  kept  up  maneuvers  on  the  fields.  The  old  Count 
treated  all  the  volunteers  among  the  subalterns  like  offieer^ 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


338 

and  gave  them  places  at  his  table.  Most  of  the  officers  had 
been  in. the  campaign,  and  related  in  a  lively  n.anner  what 
they  had  seen  pass.  Their  night-quarters  had  sometimes  been 
in  an  open  street  of  a  village,  where  they  slept  by  the  side  of 
the  houses,  with  their  knapsacks  under  their  heads,  in  rain  and 
storm  ;  sometimes  they  were  stowed  in  small  chambers,  where 
their  couch  was  often  a  high  chest  of  drawers  ornamented  with 
brass  work,  which  was  very  hard  on  the  flesh,  but  the  exceed¬ 
ing  weariness  saved  them  from  feeling  anything,  and  they  slept 
soundly.  A  young  surgeon  told  us  of  his  march  with  the 
soldiers  over  the  bare  heaths  ;  he  was  assigned  a  church  for  a 
hospital,  the  altar-candles  were  lighted,  but  still  it  was  half 
dark  ;  far  off  signal-shots  were  heard  ;  the  enemy  was  coming  ; 
the  whole  exciting  scene  of  that  night  was  brought  as  clearly 
to  my  mind  as  if  I  myself  had  seen  it  pass.  The  Prussians 
had  pressed  through  Jutland  ;  they  asked  a  contribution  of  four 
millions,  and  reports  of  another  battle  were  soon  heard. 

All  our  thoughts  and  hopes  were  turned  toward  the  Swedes: 
their  debarkation  was  to  take  place  at  Nyborg,  where  every¬ 
thing  was  arranged  to  receive  them  in  a  solemn  manner.  The 
manor  of  Glorup  received  sixteen  Swedish  officers  with  their 
attendants,  besides  twenty  musicians  and  subaltern  officers  ; 
among  the  Swedes  were  four  men,  supplied  by  the  Duke  of 
Augustenborg,  or  rather  by  his  estates  in  Sweden,  which  were 
obliged  to  furnish  them  against  their  lord.  The  Swedes  were 
received  with  rejoicing;  the  true  zeal  shown  by  the  stewardess 
of  Glorup,  old  Miss  Ibsen,  was  characteristic  and  beautiful  ; 
the  great  quartering  of  soldiers  on  the  manor  gave  her  much 
to  think  of.  “  A  great  bed  must  be  made  for  them  in  the 
barn  !  ”  was  said.  “  To  let  them  lie  in  the  barn  upon  straw  !  ” 
said  she.  “  No,  they  shall  have  beds  !  They  are  coming  here 
to  help  us,  and  they  shall  certainly  have  a  bed  !  ”  and  she  had 
wood  procured  and  bedsteads  made  for  ten  or  twelve  rooms. 
Feather-beds  were  also  obtained;  coarse  but  white  sheets  were 
shining  in  her  “  caserne,”  as  she  called  it.  I  have  later  given 
a  picture  in  the  “  Nordischer  Telegraph  ”  of  the  Swedish  sol¬ 
diers’  stay  in  Funen,  as  I  saw  it  at  Glorup,  and  I  think  that  a 
miniature  of  it  would  be  in  its  right  place  here. 


THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE. 


339 


THE  SWEDES  IN  FUNEN,  1848. 

I  must  tell  you  a  little  of  the  Swedes  in  Funen  !  Their 
It  ay  here  is  among  the  most  beautiful  and  bright  images  of 
this  summer.  I  witnessed  their  solemn  reception  in  the  small 
towns,  the  waving  flags,  the  radiant  faces  ;  many  miles  far  up 
in  the  country,  peasants  were  standing  in  crowds  along  the 
roads,  old  and  young,  asking,  full  of  expectation,  Are  the 
Swedes  coming  now?”  They  were  received  with  eating  and 
di  inking,  with  flowers  and  hand-shakings.  '1'hey  were  kind- 
hearted  men,  well-disciplined  soldiers ;  their  morning  and 
evening  devotion  was  very  solemn,  as  also  their  church- 
service  every  Sunday,  all  in  the  open  air,  after  ancient  warlike 
custom  from  the  time  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  The  divine  ser¬ 
vice  on  Sunday  took  place  in  the  old  mansion-house,  where 
one  of  the  highest  commanding  officers  and  the  whole  band 
of  music  were  quartered  ;  the  band  played,  the  troops 
marched  into  the  large,  square  castle  yard,  and  were  here 
drawn  up  in  order,  the  officers  in  front  ;  the  singing  of  psalms 
commenced,  accompanied  by  the  music.  Now  the  chaplain 
stepped  forth  on  the  large  staircase,  whose  high  stone  breast¬ 
work  was  covered  with  a  great  carpet.  I  recollect  well  the 
last  Sunday  here  :  during  the  service,  which  had  begun 
in  gray,  stormy  weather,  the  minister  spoke  of  the  angel  of 
peace,  who  descended  as  God’s  mild  animating  sunshine,  and 
just  as  he  spoke  of  it,  the  sun  accidentally  broke  forth  and 
shone  upon  the  polished  helms  and  the  pious  faces.  Yet  the 
most  solemn  of  all  was  the  morning  and  evening  devotion. 
The  companies  were  drawn  up  on  the  open  road  ;  an  under¬ 
officer  read  a  short  prayer,  and  now  they  intoned  the  psalms 
with  accompaniment  of  music  ;  when  the  song  was  ended, 
through  the  whole  rank  was  heard  a  profound  “  God  save 
the  King  !  ”  I  perceived  many  of  our  old  peasants  standing 
at  the  ditch  and  behind  the  hedge,  with  uncovered  heads  and 
clasped  hands,  joining  silently  in  the  divine  service. 

After  the  usual  daily  military  exercise  the  Swedish  soldier 
was  seen  faithfully  assisting  in  the  field  in  this  year’s  rich 
harvest.  At  the  manor,  where  we  had  the  regimental  band, 
there  was  playing  every  afternoon  until  sunset ;  the  long  lin 


340 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


den-tree  alleys  in  the  garden  were  filled  with  people  from  the 
whole  neighborhood :  it  was  a  daily  feast ;  in  the  evening  the 
Swedish  violin  was  tuned  in  the  servants’  hall,  and  dancing 
commenced  with  mutual  pleasure.  As  to  the  language,  the 
Funen  peasant  and  Swedish  soldier  understand  each  other 
soon.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  observe  the  mutual  affection, 
and  how  every  one  gave  with  good-will  according  to  his 
abilities.  “  But  did  not  the  Swedish  army  come  to  fight  ?  ” 
will  perhaps  be  said' by  one  or  another.  Yes,  but  all  the  good 
of  the  moment  does  not  lie  in  the  blow  of  the  sword.  The 
esteem  and  friendship  and  harmony  which  of  late  years  have 
been  established,  especially  among  the  younger  ones  in  the 
university  cities,  are  now,  by  the  Swedes’  stay  in  Funen,  brought 
about  for  thousands  of  the  people  themselves  :  what  did  the 
Funen  or  Swedish  peasant  know  of  the  near  relationship  in 
which  one  stands  to  the  other  ?  The  recollections  of  old  hostile 
times  were  still  alive  ;  those  are  now  dissipated,  the  neighbor¬ 
ing  people  are  drawn  nearer  to  each  other,  a  good  under¬ 
standing  is  laid,  and  good  understanding  is  an  herb  of  peace, 
and  one  that  brings  blessings  only.  In  the  peasant’s  house, 
in  the  parsonage,  as  well  as  at  the  manor,  many  an  eye  shed 
tears  at  the  departure.  On  the  quay,  at  Nyborg,  where  the 
Swedish  and  Danish  flags  waved,  many  a  reciprocal  visit  was 
agreed  upon  in  the  coming  year  of  peace.  The  Dane  will 
never  forget  the  Swede  ;  we  have  heard  and  felt  his  heart’s 
throbbing ;  many  a  little  Swedish  town,  that  cannot  boast  of 
riches,  clubbed  money  together,  “  the  widow’s  holy  mite,”  for 
the  Danish  brother.  When  the  report  of  the  Danish  defeat  at 
Sleswick  was  spread  over  the  country,  far  up  in  Sweden  the 
parishioners  were  assembled  in  their  church,  the  minister 
praying  for  king  and  father-land,  when  an  old  peasant  rose  up 
and  said  :  “  Father,  please  to  say  a  prayer  for  the  Danes 
also  !  ”  That  is.  one  of  those  little  traits  that  lift  our  hearts 
from  earthly  things.  The  nations  of  the  North  understand, 
esteem,  and  love  each  other  ;  may  that  spirit  of  unity  and  love 
always  hover  over  all  countries  ! 

The  most  of  the  summer  I  spent  at  Glorup.  Being  there  both 
in  the  spring  and  autumn,  I  was  witness  to  the  Swedes’  arrival 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


341 


and  also  their  departure.  I  did  not  myself  go  to  the  seat  of 
war ;  I  remained  at  Glorup,  where  people  daily  arrived  ;  some 
driven  by  curiosity,  and  relations  also  who  went  over  to  see 
their  dear  ones.  All  that  I  heard  of  honorable  deeds  at  the  seat 
of  war,  was  lodged  in  my  mind  :  I  heard  of  an  old  grandmother, 
who  with  her  grandchildren  stood  on  the  road  when  our  troops 
past  by  ;  she  had  strewn  sand  and  flowers  for  them,  and  cried 
out  with  the  little  ones  :  “  God  bless  the  Danes  !  ”  I  heard 
of  a  freak  of  nature,  that  in  a  peasant’s  garden  at  Sleswick 
red  poppies  were  growing  with  white  crosses,  displaying  per¬ 
fectly  the  Dannebrog  colors.  One  of  my  friends  visited  Als, 
and  then  went  over  to  Dyppel,  where  all  the  houses  had 
chinks  and  holes  made  by  cannon-balls  and  canister  shot, 
and  yet  there  remained  still  upon  one  of  the  houses  the  sym¬ 
bol  of  peace  —  a  stork’s  nest  with  its  whole  family;  the  violent 
shooting,  fire,  and  smoke  had  not  been  able  to  drive  the 
parents  away  from  their  little  ones  when  they  could  not  as 
yet  fly. 

The  mail  from  abroad  brought  me  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
summer  a  letter,  written  by  an  unknown  hand ;  its  tenor  af¬ 
fected  me  much,  and  showed  us  also  how  events  are  often 
reported  abroad.  The  letter  was  from  a  high  functionary,  the 
subject  of  a  foreign  sovereign;  he  wrote  that,  notwithstanding 
he  had  never  seen  me,  nor  had  the  least  acquaintance  with  me, 
he  believed  yet,  through  my  writings,  especially  “  The  Story 
of  my  Life,”  that  he  knew  he  could  trust  me  :  and  then  he 
said,  that  one  morning  the  report  had  reached  the  city 
where  he  lived,  that  the  Danes  had  made  an  assault  upon 
Kiel  and  set  it  on  fire  ;  the  young  people  were  alarmed,  and 
in  the  excitement  of  the  moment  his  youngest  son  went  with 
the  other  young  fellows  to  help  the  hardly  pressed  citizens  ; 
the  young  man  was  made  prisoner  at  the  battle  of  Bau,  and 
carried  to  Copenhagen  on  board  a  ship  of  the  line,  Queen 
Mary.  He  was  among  those  who,  after  a  long  stay  on  board, 
were  allowed  to  leave  the  ship  ;  but  as  soon  as  they  were 
ashore  some  of  them  committed  excesses,  so  that  only  those 
who  could  procure  a  guaran  ee  for  their  conduct  from  a  citizen 
of  Copenhagen  were  allowed  to  go  ashore.  The  letter-writer 
did  not  know  a  single  on:  at  Copenhagen;  I  was  the  only  one 


342 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


% 


whom  he  knew,  and  that  through  my  writings  alone,  and  in  ma 
he  had  confidence  and  hope,  and  therefore  he  asked  me  if  I 
would  bail  the  son,  who  was  a  brave,  kind-hearted  man.  He 
requested  me  also  to  find  board  for  him  in  a  Copenhagen 
family  “  that  did  not  hate  the  Germans  too  much  !  ” 

His  confidence  touched  me,  and  I  wrote  immediately  to  one 
of  my  most  influential  friends  in  Copenhagen,  inclosing  the 
German  letter,  to  enable  him  to  see  clearly  the  whole  affair 
as  it  had  been  given  me,  and  asked  if  the  request  could  be 
granted  upon  my  responsibility,  and  to  any  benefit  for  the 
young  man.  I  knew  that  every  hour  which  passed  was  an 
hour  of  confinement,  and,  therefore,  I  sent  immediately  an 
express  with  my  letter  to  the  nearest  town.  The  next  post¬ 
day  I  received  an  answer  that  we  need  not  do  anything,  as  all 
the  prisoners  had  just  been  released  and  sent  by  steamship 
to  Kiel.  I  was  very  glad  on  the  father’s  account,  and  also  glad 
at  having  immediately  done  what  my  heart  told  me  to  do  ;  but 
I  did  not  answer  his  letter,  that  was  not  necessary ;  the  man 
has  never  heard  of  my  sympathy.  Now  for  the  first  time  in  the 
blessed  days  of  peace  I  send  him  my  greeting,  which  I  have 
often  thought  of  offering  him  ;  and  I  dare  add,  that  bis  letter 
touched  me  deeply,  and  I  acted  in  the  same  way  as  every  one 
of  my  countrymen,  if  honored  by  the  same  confidence,  would 
have  acted. 

I  left  Glorup  in  the  autumn  ;  the  approach  of  winter  brought 
a  cessation  of  hostilities ;  the  apparent  tranquillity  turned 
thought  and  activity  for  a  while  back  on  accustomed  occupa¬ 
tions.  I  had  finished  at  Glorup,  in  the  course  of  the  summer, 
my  novel,  “The  Two  Baronesses,”  which,  as  regards  the  de¬ 
scription  of  island  nature,  has  certainly  gained  in  freshness  and 
truth  by  that  summer  sojourn. 

The  English  edition  was  dedicated  to  my  English  publisher, 
the  honored  and  well-known  Richard  Bentley.  The  book  was 
.ssued,  and,  considering  the  time  and  circumstances,  was  pretty 
well  received  ;  one  of  our  newspapers,  to  be  sure,  confused  the 
novel  and  the  movements  of  time  together  in  such  a  way  that 
they  did  not  find  it  just  that  the  old  Baroness,  happy  at  her 
favorite  the  Chamberlain’s  contentment  with  London,  should 
propose  a  toast  for  England  :  and  remarked  that  it  was  a  little 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE .  343 

too  early  to  let  her  do  that,  because  England  had  not  yet  done 
anything  for  the  Danes. 

Heiberg  read  the  book  and  wrote  me  some  kind  words,  and 
gave  a  dinner  to  me  and  several  of  our  friends  and  acquaint¬ 
ances.  He  drank  my  health  with  these  beautiful  words  : 
“  To  that  novel,  which  we  leave  as  refreshed  as  after  a  wander¬ 
ing  in  the  wood  in  the  spring-time.”  It  was  the  first  really 
kind  union,  after  many  years,  with  that  poet ;  it  made  me  a 
new  man,  and  “  the  bitter  was  forgotten,  the  new  sweet  kept.” 

The  centennial  anniversary  of  the  Danish  Theatre  was  to 
be  celebrated  the  eighth  of  December  ;  Heiberg  and  Collin 
both  agreed  in  charging  me  with  the  writing  of  the  prelude 
for  the  affair.  Bournonville  was  to  give  a  ballet  on  the  same 
occasion,  and  gave  “  Old  Memories  ;  ”  the  most  picturesque 
scenes  from  the  ballets  of  the  play-book  were  seen  as  through 
a  magic  lantern.  My  plan  of  the  prelude  received  the  ap¬ 
probation  of  the  directors ;  they  liked  my  idea,  which  was 
b^sed  entirely  on  the  present  time.  I  knew  with  what  feelings 
people  at  that  time  came  to  the  theatre,  and  how  little  attrac¬ 
tion  it  had  for  them,  because  their  thoughts  were  with  the 
soldiers  in  the  war  ;  I  therefore  was  obliged  to  let  my  poem 
go  with  them,  and  then  to  try  to  carry  it  back  to  the  Danish 
stage.  My  conviction  told  me  that  our  strength  nowadays 
does  not  lie  in  the  sword,  but  in  intellectual  ability,  and  I 
wrote  “  Denmark’s  Work  of  Art,”  as  it  is  known,  and  is  to  be 
seen  in  my  collected  writings.  On  the  festival  evening  it  was 
received  with  great  applause  ;  but  it  was  a  mistake  to  have 
it  given  to  the  subscribers  of  theatre-seats,  and  to  be  used  as 
\  prologue  a  whole  week  through.  On  the  feast-day  it  was, 
as  I  said,  received  with  great  applause  ;  people  were  trans¬ 
ported  ;  but  now  came  the  newspapers,  and  one  of  them  blamed 
me  for  making  the  prelude  contain  a  disgusting  prattling  of 
Denmark  and  Dannebrog ;  that  we  ought  to  let  others  praise 
,  us  and  not  do  it  ourselves,  otherwise  it  would  seem  like  Hol- 
berg’s  “Jacob  von  Thybo,”  etc.  Another  newspaper  re¬ 
ported  the  prelude  in  such  a  manner  that  I  could  not  well  see 
whether  the  reporter  had  written  in  a  spirit  of  folly  or  of 
malice.  At  the  fourth  representatior  it  had  already  grown  to 
an  old  story ;  they  did  not  applaud  any  more  ;  and  from  that 


344 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


representation  came  the  critique  in  “  The  North  and  South,” 
whose  reviewer  was  not  satisfied  with  my  poem  :  the  poem 
made,  however,  an  impression  in  due  time,  and  I  consider 
still  the  idea  and  its  whole  form  as  successful,  and  the  only 
right  one  in  those  days  when  we  were  possessed  by  such  ra¬ 
tional  feelings. 

In  January  “  The  Marriage  at  the  Lake  of  Como”  was 
brought  on  the  stage,  and  now  the  composer  Glaser,  who 
had  long  been  shown  indifference,  even  injustice,  was  appre¬ 
ciated,  and  his  music  received  with  great  applause.  The  crit¬ 
icism  in  the  newspaper  was  warm  and  commendatory;  his  music 
and  Bournonville’s  arrangements  were  highly  praised,  whereas 
I  was  not  mentioned.  Glaser,  on  the  contrary,  expressed  him¬ 
self  warmly  and  kindly  for  the  honor  I  had  shown  him. 

Fredrika  Bremer  came  at  Christmas  for  the  first  time  to 
Copenhagen.  I  was  the  only  one  she  knew  personally,  and 
her  other  acquaintance  was  confined  to  having  been  in  corre¬ 
spondence  with  the  present  Bishop  Martensen.  I  had  thus  th#e 
pleasure  of  receiving  her,  of  being  at  her  service,  and  of  taking 
her  round  in  Copenhagen,  which  was  as  easy  as  it  was  pleasant 
with  a  woman  of  her  position.  She  stayed  here  all  winter  and 
a  great  part  of  summer,  during  which  she  visited  Ingemann  at 
Soro,  and  made  an  excursion  to  Svendborg  and  Moen’s  Klint ; 
her  heart  was  firmly  fixed  on  the  Danish  cause,  and  that  we 
can  clearly  see  from  her  little  book,  the  visible  flower  of  her 
stay  here,  which  is  published  in  Swedish,  English,  German, 
and  Danish,  “  Life  in  the  North.”  Her  heart  and  thought 
were  for  the  Danes.  The  little  book  did  not,  however,  find 
the  appreciation,  we  may  even  say  the  gratitude,  which  she 
rightly  deserved  here  ;  we  always  criticise,  especially  where  we 
see  that  the  heart  acts  a  part.  People  dwelt  upon  the  too 
exaggerated  picture  of  the  crowds  in  “  East  Street,”  which  we 
were  accustomed  to,  but  not  she,  who  had  not  yet  seen  Lon¬ 
don  nor  the  great  cities  of  America.  Her  little  book  shows  a 
strong  affection  for  Denmark,  yet  it  did  not  get  the  acknowl¬ 
edgment  which  we  owed  it ;  but  from  its  leaves  there  shine 
the  sympathy,  the  tears  I  so  often  saw  in  her  eyes ;  she  felt 
deeply  for  the  destiny  of  the  Danish  people  and  land. 

The  report  that  the  ship  of  the  line  Christian  VIII .  had 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


345 


blown  up  on  Maunday  Thursday,  with  all  the  troops  on  board, 
arrived  here  one  evening  in  April ;  people  were  in  the  theatre, 
the  report  found  its  way  in,  there  was  a  hum  through  the 
multitude,  the  most  part  of  course  went  out;  it  was  empty 
within,  the  streets  were  filled,  a  grief  pervaded  all,  deep  and 
absorbing.  All  the  theatres  were  closed  ;  it  was  a  public  grief. 
It  was  if  one  stood  upon  a  sinking  wreck.  A  single  life  saved 
from  the  ship  was  as  a  victory  that  had  been  won. 

I  met  in  the  street  my  friend,  the  Captain-lieutenant,  Chr. 
W ulff ;  his  eyes  sparkled,  he  pressed  my  hand.  “  Do  you  know 
whom  I  bring  home  ?  ”  said  he  :  “  Lieutenant  Ulrich  !  he  is  not 
blown  up,  he  is  saved,  has  fled,  reached  our  outposts,  and  I 
bring  him  home !  ”  I  did  not  know  Lieutenant  Ulrich  at 
all,  but  I  burst  into  tears  of  joy.  “Where  is  he?  I  must 
see  him  !  ”  —  “  He  is  now  gone  to  the  Minister  of  the  Navy, 
and  then  he  will  go  to  his  mother,  who  believes  that  he  is 
dead  !  ” 

I  went  into  the  first  grocery  shop,  got  a  guide,  and  found 
out  where  Ulrich’s  mother  lived.  Arriving,  there,  I  was  afraid 
that  she  still  was  ignorant  of  the  whole  ;  I  therefore  asked  the 
girl,  who  opened  the  door,  “  How  is  it  in  the  house,  —  are  they 
sad  or  glad  ?  ”  Then  the  girl’s  face  beamed  :  “  They  are  glad  ; 
the  son  is  as  if  fallen  down  from  the  sky  !  ”  and  now  I  entered, 
without  ceremony,  the  room  where  the  whole  family  was  sit¬ 
ting,  dressed  in  mourning,  —  this  very  morning  had  they  put 
on  these  dresses,  —  and  the  supposed  dead  son  stood  sound 
and  safe  among  them  !  I  threw  my  arms  round  his  neck,  I 
could  not  do  otherwise ;  I  wept,  and  they  felt  and  understood 
that  I  came  not  as  a  stranger.  Relating  this  story  to  Miss 
Bremer,  which  she  has  also  mentioned  in  her  book,  she  be¬ 
came  quite  as  touched  as  I  had  been.  Her  soul  is  as  tender 

k 

as  it  is  noble  and  great. 

My  mind  was  sick,  I  suffered  in  soul  and  body  ;  I  was  in 
the  mood  of  the  people  around  me.  Miss  Bremer  spoke  of 
her  beautiful  country :  I  had  also  friends  there  ;  I  decided  on 
a  journey  either  up  into  Dalarne  or  perhaps  to  Haparanda  for 
the  midsummer  day.  Miss  Bremer’s  midsummer  journey  had 
induced  me  to  it;  she  was  indefatigable  in  writing  letters  for 
we  to  her  many  friends  through  the  whole  realm  of  Sweden  ; 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


346 

in  that  country  one  needs  such  help,  for  one  cannot  always  find 
inns  to  pat  up  in,  but  must  seek  a  shelter  with  the  minister  or 
at  the  manor.  Before  my  departure  she  arranged  a  parting 
feast  in  Swedish  style,  such  as  we  in  Copenhagen  do  not  know 
or  like ;  there  was  a  mystification,  many  guests,  and  among 
them  H.  C.  Orsted,  Martensen,  and  Hartmann.  I  received  a 
beautiful  silver  cup,  with  the  inscription,  “A  souvenir  from 
Fredrika  Bremer  !  ”  a  little  poem  accompanied  it. 

On  Ascension  Day  I  went  over  to  Helsingborg.  The  spring 
was  beautiful,  the  young  birch-trees  smelt  refreshingly,  the 
sun  shone  warmly,  the  whole  journey  became  a  poem,  and 
thus  it  appears  also  in  the  description  given  in  my  book,  In 
Sweden.” 

Like  a  half  English,  half  Dutch  city,  Gothaborg  lay  befo*e 
me  with  its  shining  gas-flames,  grand  and  lively  :  it  is  further 
advanced  than  other  Swedish  towns.  The  only  theatre  had 
made  no  progress,  and  the  original  piece  they  gave  was  dread¬ 
ful  —  I  will  rather  call  it  rough.  They  told  me  that  the 
principal  part  was  given  by  the  author  himself.  What  inter¬ 
ested  me  was  that  the  whole  action  turned  literally  about  a 
real  person  still  living.  An  ol*I,  learned  Master  of  Arts,  —  who 
for  fun  was  called  “  Arab,”  on  account  of  his  knowledge  of 
the  Oriental  languages,  —  was  represented  in  the  piece  as  de¬ 
sirous  of  being  married  ;  anecdotes  of  the  man’s  life  were  here 
introduced  ;  the  piece  itself  was  made  up  of  fragmentary  scenes 
without  action  or  character ;  but  the  chief  person  was  still 
living,  and,  as  they  said,  was  in  the  poor-house  at  Stockholm. 
The  actor  gave  a  true  portrait  of  him,  and  there  was  a  storm 
of  applause.  I  went  away  after  the  second  act :  it  is  unpleas¬ 
ant  to  me  to  see  a  person  made  ridiculous  when  that  is  all 
that  comes  of  it. 

I  believe  that  the  harbor  and  the  magnificent  bath-house 
with  its  marble  bathing  tubs,  are  due  to  the  clever  and  worthy 
Commerce-counselor,  Mr.  Wieck,  in  whom  I  also  found  a  very 
amiable  host,  and  in  whose  rich  and  comfortable  home  I  made 
acquaintance  shortly  with  the  most  important  persons  of  Goth¬ 
aborg,  —  among  whom  I  must  mention  Miss  Rolander,  an 
accomplished  novelist. 

I  saw  again  the  great  waterfall  of  Trollhatta,  and  have 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


347 

tried  since  to  paint  it  in  words ;  the  impression  it  makes  is 
always  new  and  great ;  but  I  have  retained  quite  as  freshly 
the  impression  that  followed,  —  a  meeting,  namely,  that  took 
place  outside  of  Wenersburg,  where  the  steamer  stopped  for 
passengers.  At  the  landing-place  stood  a  little  fifer,  whom  1 
had  seen  the  year  before  with  the  Swedish  troops  in  Funen  ; 
he  saluted  me  in  a  happy,  familiar  fashion,  and  was  quite  as¬ 
tonished  to  see  me  again  in  his  country.  When  the  Swedish 
soldiers  were  stationed  at  Glorup,  they  went  out  one  day  to 
drill ;  the  boy  was  not  well,  and  the  old  stewardess  would  not 
allow  him  to  go  :  the  child  must  be  physicked  and  have  some 
gruel !  The  officer  said  that  nothing  ailed  him.  “  I  am  his 
mother  here  !  ”  she  said  ;  “  the  child  is  sick,  and  he  shall  not 
play  the  fife  to-day  !  ”  The  boy  asked  after  the  mistress  and 
the  old  Count. 

I  arrived  at  Stockholm,  and  immediately  changed  my  clothes 
that  I  might  find  our  ambassador,  from  whom  I  expected  to 
hear  something  of  the  war,  which  entirely  occupied  my  mind. 
On  the  way  there  I  was  unfortunate  enough  to  meet  with  Dr. 
Leo,  a  Danish-speaking  German,  whom  I  knew  at  Copenhagen, 
where  I  had  received  him  kindly,  and  introduced  him  to  Miss 
Bremer,  who  was  then  there  on  a  visit ;  he  has  not  dealt 
fairly  with  her  and  me  in  his  “  Characters  out  of  my  Scandi¬ 
navian  Portfolio,”  printed  as  a  feuilleton  in  the  “  Novellen- 
Zeitung ;”  he  gives  a  kind  of  caricature-portrait  of  me  drawn 
from  that  meeting  in  the  streets  of  Stockholm,  where  I  im¬ 
mediately,  as  he  says,  after  having  left  the  steamer,  appeared 
on  the  promenade  in  party  dress,  with  white  kid  gloves,  on  in 
order  to  be  seen,  and  that  my  arrival  might  be  announced  in 
the  newspapers  the  next  day.  He  has  done  me  wrong  in  tl.at, 
he  has  given  me  pain  ;  but  I  will  also  remember  that  he  , 
has  translated  beautifully  several  of  my  books  —  has  spoken 
m  a  friendly  manner  of  me  at  other  times  and  in  other 
places.  I  hold  out  again  my  hand  to  him  —  and  without 
“  kid  gloves.” 

Lindblad,  whose  beautiful  melodies  Jenny  Lind  has  scat¬ 
tered  about  the  world,  was  one  of  the  first  I  met ;  he  resem¬ 
bles  her  as  much  as  a  brother  may  resemole  his  sister ;  he  has 
the  same  appearance  of  melancholv,  but  the  features  are  more 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


348 

powerful  than  hers  ;  he  requested  me  to  write  an  opera  text 
for  him,  and  I  should  like  to  do  it,  that  it  might  be  carried  by 
his  genius  on  the  wings  of  popular  song.  In  the  theatre  the 
Italian  company  gave  one  of  its  Italian  operas,  composed  by 
Kapelmeister  Foroni,  “Queen  Christina ;”  the  text  was  by 
the  singer  Casanova.  It  seemed  to  have  rather  grand  har¬ 
monies  than  real  melodies  ;  the  conspiracy  act  was  the  most 
effective  ;  beautiful  decorations  and  good  costumes  were  not 
missing,  and  they  had  tried  to  make  portrait  likenesses  of 
Christina  and  Oxenstjerna  ;  the  most  peculiar  thing  of  all 
was,  however,  to  see  in  Christina’s  Swedish  capital,  Christina 
herself  as  a  character  on  the  stage. 

•Through  the  book-seller,  Magister  Bagge,  I  was  introduced 
into  the  “  Literary  Society,”  and  at  a  feast  there  I  was  placed 
by  the  side  of  the  poet,  Chamberlain  Beskovv ;  Dr.  Leo  also 
was  a  guest,  and  the  president  took  occasion  to  propose 
the  health  of  “the  two  excellent  foreigners,  Mr.  Andersen 
from  Copenhagen,  the  author  of  “The  Improvisatore ”  and 
“  Wonder  Stories  told  for  Children,”  and  Dr.  Leo  from  Leipsic, 
editor  of  “  The  Northern  Telegraph.”  Later  in  the  evening, 
Magister  Bagge  proposed  a  sentiment  for  me  and  for  my 
country ;  he  bade  me  tell  my  countrymen  of  the  enthusiasm 
and  sympathy  which  the  whole  Swedish  people  bore  toward 
us.  I  answered  with  words  from  one  of  my  songs  :  — 

“  Sharp  as  a  sword  lay  Oresound 
Between  the  neighbor  lands, 

When  a  rose-bush  branch  one  morn  was  found. 

That  joined  the  opposite  strands  ; 

Each  rose  breathed  sweet  of  poetry, 

That  now  to  heal  old  wounds  was  eager  : 

Who  wrought  this  wondrous  magicry  ? 

Tegner  and  Oehlenschlager  !  ”  — 

and  added  :  “  Several  Skalds  have  since  appeared  as  well  in 
Sweden  as  in  Denmark,  and  by  these  the  two  peoples  have 
;nore  and  more  learnt  to  understand  each  other,  have  felt  the 
throbbing  of  the  hearts  ;  and  the  beating  of  the  Swedish  heart 
has  recently  been  felt  deeply  and  tenderly  by  us,  just  as  I  feel 
it  in  this  moment!”  Tears  came  into  my  eyes  and  hurras 
resounded  round  about  ! 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


349 


Beskow  accompanied  me  to  King  Oscar,  who  received  me 
Very  kindly  ;  it  was  almost  as  if  we  had  often  spoken  with  each 
other,  and  yet  this  was  the  first  time  we  had  met.  I  thanked 
his  Majesty  for  the  Order  of  the  North  Star,  with  which  he 
had  graciously  honored  me  ;  he  talked  of  Stockholm’s  resem¬ 
blance  to  Constantinople,  of  Lake  Roxen’s  likeness  to  the 
southern  part  of  Loch  Lomond  ;  of  the  Swedish  soldier’s 
discipline  and  piety,  and  the  King  said  that  he  had  read 
what  I  had  written  of  the  Swedes’  stay  in  Funen  ;  he  ex¬ 
pressed  a  warm  and  sympathetic  feeling  for  the  Danish  people 
and  friendship  for  the  King.  We  spoke  of  the  war ;  I  said 
that  it  was  fixed  in  the  character  of  the  Danish  nation  to  hold 
fast  to  what  was  right,  whether  it  be  a  small  or  a  great  matter. 
I  felt  how  noble  a  disposition  the  King  had.  I  told  him  that 
the  good  which  the  Danes  saw  him  do  for  them  would  bring 
him  the  whole  people’s  gratitude.  We  talked  of  the  heredi¬ 
tary  Grand  Duke  of  Weimar,  whom  he  also  loved ;  after  that 
his  Majesty  asked  me,  when  I  came  back  from  Upsala,  where 
I  was  about  to  go,  to  dine  with  him.  “  The  Queen  also,  my 
wife,”  lie  said,  “  knows  your  writings,  and  would  like  to  be 
acquainted  personally  with  you.” 

After  my  return  I  was  at  the  royal  table.  The  Queen,  who 
bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  her  mother,  the  Duchess  of 
Leuchtenberg,  whom  I  had  seen  at  Rome,  received  me  very 
kindly,  and  said  that  she  had  already  long  known  me  from  my 
writings,  and  from  “  The  Story  of  my  Life.”  At  the  table  I 
was  seated  by  the  side  of  Beskow,  opposite  the  Queen.  Prince 
Gustavus  conversed  briskly  with  me.  After  dinner  I  read  for 
them  “  The  Flax,”  “  The  Ugly  Duckling,”  “  The  Story  cf  a 
Mother,”  and  “  The  False  Collar.”  At  the  reading  of  “  The 
Story  of  a  Mother,”  I  perceived  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  noble 
royal  couple  ;  they  expressed  themselves  with  warmth  and  sym¬ 
pathy  ;  how  amiable  they  both  were,  how  straightforward  and 
generous  !  On  my  retiring,  the  Queen  stretched  out  her  hand 
to  me,  which  I  pressed  to  my  lips  ;  she  as  well  as  the  King 
honored  me  with  a  renewed  invitation  to  come  once  more  and 
read  to  them.  A  feeling  of  congeniality,  if  I  may  dare  use  the 
word,  drew  me  especially  to  the  amiable  young  Prince  Gus¬ 
tavus  ;  his  great,  blue  spiritual  eyes  possessed  a  kindness  that 


350 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


exercised  great  power ;  his  unusual  talent  for  music  interested 
me ;  there  was  something  very  attractive  and  confiding  in  his 
character,  and  we  met  on  common  ground,  in  our  admiration 
for  the  Duke  of  Weimar  ;  we  talked  of  him,  of  the  war,  of 
music  and  poetry. 

At  my  next  visit  to  the  palace,  I  was,  in  company  with  Bes- 
kow,  summoned  to  the  Queen’s  apartments,  for  an  hour  before 
dinner ;  the  Princess  Eugenie,  the  Crown  Prince,  and  the 
Princes  Gustavus  and  Augustus  were  there,  and  soon  also  the 
King  came  :  “  Poetry  called  him  from  business  !  ”  he  said.  I 
read  “The  Fir-tree,”  “The  Darning-Needle,”  “The  Little 
Girl  with  Matches,”  and  by  request,  “The  Flax.”  The  King 
followed  me  with  great  attention ;  “  the  deep  poetry  that  lies 
in  these  little  narratives  ”  —  thus  he  was  pleased  to  express 
himself — pleased  him,  and  he  said  that  he  had  read  the 
stories  on  his  journey  to  Norway ;  amongst  others,  “  The  Fir- 
tree.  All  the  three  princes  pressed  my  hand,  and  the  King 
invited  me  to  come  on  his  birthday,  the  fourth  of  July,  when 
Beskow  should  be  my  cicerone. 

They  wished  in  Stockholm  to  show  me  public  horrors.  I 
knew  how  I  should  be  envied  for  it  at  home,  and  be  the  ob¬ 
ject  of  malicious  remark  ;  and  I  was  disheartened,  arid  be¬ 
came  feverish  at  the  very  thought  of  being  the  hero  of  an 
evening’s  feast ;  I  felt  like  a  delinquent,  and  dreaded  the  many 
toasts  and  the  long  evening. 

I  met  there  the  famous  and  gifted  Madame  Carlen,  —  the 
wiiter  under  the  fictitious  name,  “  Wilhelmina,”  less  known, 
but  an  excellent  novelist ;  also  the  actress  Madame  Strand- 
berg,  and  several  other  ladies  who  took  part  in  the  evening’s 
entertainment.  Madame  Carlen  invited  me  to  walk  with  her; 
but  we  dared  not  go  into  the  garden,  where  I  wished  to  walk, 
because  I  saw  there  were  not  so  many  spectators  there ;  and 
we  had  to  walk  in  a  particular  place,  because  they  said  the 
public  wished  to  see  Mr.  Andersen.  It  was  a  well-meant 
arrangement,  but  for  me  a  little  painful ;  I  saw  in  imagination 
the  whole  performance  represented  at  home  in  “The  Corsair” 
in  wood-cut.  I  knew  that  Oehlenschlager,  whom  people  used 
to  look  up  to  with  a  kind  of  piety,  had  been  represented 
there  surrounded  by  Swedish  ladies,  when  he  made  his  visit  ie 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  l IFE. 


351 

Stockholm.  I  perceived  before  me  in  the  mall  a  whole  crowd 
of  children  coming  to  meet  us  with  a  huge  garland  of  flowers  ; 
they  strewed  flowers  for  me  and  surrounded  me,  while  a 
multitude  of  people  gathered  about  and  honored  me  by 
taking  off  their  hats.  My  thoughts  were,  “  You  may  be  sure 
that  at  Copenhagen  they  will  laugh  at  you :  how  many  sneers 
you  will  have  from  them !  ”  I  was  quite  out  of  humor,  but  was 
obliged  to  appear  happy  among  these  friendly,  good  people ; 
I  turned  the  whole  into  jest,  kissed  one  of  the  children,  and 
chatted  a  little  with  another.  At  the  supper-table  the  poet, 
Pastor  Mellin,  drank  my  health  ;  after  having  hinted  at  my 
poetic  fertility,  he  recited  some  festive  verses,  written  by  the 
authoress  “  Wilhelmina,”  and  now  followed  a  beautiful  poem 
by  Mr.  Carlen. 

I  replied  that  I  considered  the  kindness  shown  me  as  a 
payment  in  advance,  which  I  hoped  that  God  would  grant  me 
power  to  return  by  a  work  in  which  I  might  express  my  affec¬ 
tion  to  Sweden.  And  I  have  tried  to  redeem  my  promise. 
The  writer  of  comedies,  the  actor  Jolin,  recited  in  dialect:  “A 
Peasant  Story  from  Dalarne  ;  ”  the  singers  of  the  Royal  Theatre, 
Strandberg,  Wallin,  and  Giinther  sang  Swedish  songs ;  the 
orchestra  played,  and  began  with  the  Danish  melody,  “  There 
is  a  Charming  Land.”  At  eleven  o’clock  I  rode  home  ;  glad 
at  heart  over  these  friendly  souls,  —  glad,  too,  to  go  to  rest. 

I  was  soon  on  my  way  to  Dalarne.  One  of  Fredrika  Bre¬ 
mer’s  letters  introduced  me  at  Upsala  to  the  poet  Fahlkranz, 
the  brother  of  the  renowned  landscape-painter,  and  honorably 
known  by  his  poems  “  Ansgar  ”  and  “  Noah’s  Ark;”  I  met 
with  my  friend,  the  poet  Bottger,  married  to  Tegner’s  daughter 
Disa,  —  a  happy  couple,  whose  home  seemed  to  be  filled  with 
sunshine  and  the  poetry  of  family  life.  My  room  in  the  hotel 
bordered  upon  a  large  hall,  where  the  students  had  just  cele¬ 
brated  a  sexa  (feast),  and  learning  that  I  was  a  neighbor,  a 
deputation-  came  and  invited  me  to  hear  them  sing  ;  there  was 
frolic  and  gayety  and  beautiful  singing.  I  tried  to  select  one, 
judging  from  appearances,  whom  I  might  with  pleasure  join  ; 
a  tall,  pale  young  man  pleased  me,  and  I  learned  soon  that  I 
had  made  a  right  choice.  He  sang  beautifully  and  with  great 
distinctness  ;  he  was  the  most  genial  among  all ;  I  afterward 


352 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


heard  that  he  was  the  poet  Wennerberg,  the  composer  of 
“  Gluntarne.”  Afterward  I  heard  him,  together  with  Beronius, 
singing  his  modernized  “  Bellman-songs ;  ”  it  was  at  the 
Prefect’s,  where  I  met  the  most  eminent  men  and  women  of 
Upsala,  and  found  a  very  kind  reception.  I  met  here  for  the 
first  time  Atterbom,  the  Skald  of  “  The  Flowers,”  he  who 
sang  of  “  The  Island  of  Beatitude  ;  ”  there  is,  Marmier  says,  a 
kind  of  freemasonry  among  poets  ;  they  know  and  understand 
each  other.  I  felt  and  acknowledged  its  truth  at  the  home  of 
that  amiable  old  Skald. 

When  travelling  in  Sweden  one  must  have  his  own  carriage ; 
I  should  have  been  obliged  to  buy  such  a  one  if  the  Prefect 
had  not  kindly  offered  me  his  carriage  for  the  whole  long 
journey ;  Professor  Schroeder  furnished  me  with  “  slanter  ” 
(small  coins)  and  a  whip ;  Fahlkranz  wrote  an  itinerary,  and  I 
began  now  the  for  me  very  peculiar  travelling  life,  not  unlike 
what  one  gets  in  parts  of  America,  where  the  railroad  net  has 
not  yet  reached.  It  was  contrary  to  what  I  was  used  to,  and 
almost  like  the  travelling  life  of  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Wreaths  were  fastened  to  May-poles  for  Midsummer  night, 
when  I  reached  the  Lake  of  Siljan,  that  lay  spread  out  before 
me  ;  great  willow-trees  drooped  above  the  quickly  running 
Dal  river,  where  wild  swans  were  swimming;  beyond  Mora, 
toward  the  boundary  of  Norway,  the  mountains  appeared  in 
bluish  colors ;  the  whole  life  and  stir,  the  picturesque  dresses, 
the  summer  heat,  all  were  so  different  from  what  I  imagined 
it  to  be  in  the  quiet,  cold  North  ;  and  now  what  sport  there 
was  at  the  midsummer  feast !  A  multitude  of  boats  arrived 
filled  with  nicely  dressed  church-people,  old  and  young  —  even 
small  babies ;  it  was  a  picture  so  lively,  so  grand,  that  I  can 
but  poorly  present  it  in  words.  Professor  Marstrand,  in¬ 
fluenced  by  my  description,  and  later  by  my  verbal  account  of 
it,  undertook  two  years  in  succession  to  make  a  journey  here 
ust  at  midsummer  time,  and  reproduced  on  canvas  that  gay 
picture  with  its  lively  colors  very  skillfully. 

At  Leksand  the  traveller  could  still  find  an  inn,  but  not 
higher  up  ;  at  Rattvek  I  was  therefore  obliged  to  conform  to 
the  custom  of  the  country,  and  put  up  at  the  minister’s,  and 
there  make  my  lodging ;  but  before  he  heard  my  name  I  wai 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


353 


already  welcomed.  Afterward  there  was  a  feast,  and  the  fol¬ 
lowing  day,  as  I  went  with  him  to  the  neighboring  watering- 
place,  a  crowd  of  children  were  standing  at  the  bridge  ;  they 
swung  their  caps  ;  they  knew  him  who  wrote  the  stories. 
“Andersen  is  up  here  in  Dalarne !  ”  was  yesterday  the  news 
that  one  of  the  little  chaps  had  to  tell  !  I  thought  that 
moment  of  my  poor  little  friends  at  Heriot’s  Hospital  in 
Edinburgh;  I  thought  of  Scotland’s  bairns,  and  now  I  was 
standing  in  the  midst  of  the  happy  circle  of  children  here  in 
Dalarne,  and  my  heart  grew  humble  and  tender,  thankful  to 
God,  whose  forgiveness  I  asked  for  those  sighs  and  pains  I 
used  to  utter  to  Him  in  my  heavy  hours,  in  griefs  bitter 
moments. 

Old  memories,  the  sunlight  thrown  by  traditions  and  his¬ 
tory  over  a  country,  have  sometimes  a  greater  power  and 
significance  than  its  picturesque  beauty.  What  here  is  fixed 
in  my  memory  is  the  faithfulness  of  the  Dalkarle  people,  Gus- 
tavus  Vasa’s  flight,  and  his  whole  demeanor  ;  here  also,  almost 
unaltered,  is  the  scene  of  the  romantic  part  of  his  life  in  all  its 
grandeur  and  solitariness.  As  far  as  I  was  able,  I  have  in  the 
group  of  pictures  “  In  Sweden  ”  represented  the  impressions 
made  upon  me.  Those  immensely  large  and  extensive  wood- 
tracts,  with  solitary  charcoal  pits ;  deep,  clear,  wood-lakes, 
where  the  linnaea  blooms  over  the  rocky  stones,  and  where  the 
wild  swans  are  building  their  nests,  were  something  new  and 
marvelous  to  me  ;  I  had  a  feeling  as  if  I  were  moved  back 
centuries  of  time.  I  visited  Fahlun,  with  its  copper-mines  and 
its  whole  beautiful  environs,  and  from  here  I  recollect  a  little 
event,  such  as  we  count  among  accidents,  but  which  by  many 
people  are  yet  placed  upon  a  higher  ground.  Among  my 
Swedish  pictures  I  have  given  it  the  title :  “  What  the  Straws 
said.”  It  is  no  invention,  it  is  an  event. 

In  the  Prefect’s  garden  at  Fahlun  sat  a  circle  of  young  girls  , 
they  took  in  sport  four  grass-straws  in  their  hands  and  tied 
them  two  and  two  together  at  the  ends  ;  when  it  h  ippens 
that  all  the  four  straws  form  a  coherent  whole,  the  popular 
belief  is  that  what  the  binder  thought  of  shall  be  fulfilled. 
1  hey  could  not  any  of  them  succeed  in  this,  and  they  wished 

th  \t  I  would  trv  it.  “  But  I  don’t  believe  in  it  S  ”  I  answered  ; 

0 

2\ 


354 


THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE. 


nevertheless  I  took  four  straws,  and  promised  that  in  case 
they  came  out  right  I  would  tell  them  what  I  wished.  I  tied, 
opened  my  hand,  and  the  straws  hung  together ;  the  blood 
involuntarily  rushed  up  into  my  cheeks,  I  became  supersti¬ 
tious,  and  directly  against  all  reason  I  believed  in  it,  because 
I  wanted  to  do  so  ;  and  what  was  the  wish  ?  they  asked.  I 
told  it :  “  That  Denmark  might  obtain  a  great  victory  and 
soon  get  an  honorable  peace  !  ”  —  “  May  God  grant  it !  ”  ex¬ 
claimed  they  all ;  and  the  prophecy  of  the  straws  that  day  was 
—  accidentally  —  a  truth  ;  there  soon  was  reported  in  Sweden 
the  battle  of  Fredericia  ! 

By  way  of  Gefle  I  returned  again  to  Upsala  and  Danne- 
mora,  whose  dizzy  mines  I  beheld  from  above  ;  I  had  before 
visited  Rammel’s  mountain  in  the  Harzt,  Baumann’s  cave,  the 
saltworks  of  Hallein,  and  the  catacombs  under  Rome  and  at 
Malta ;  there  was  no  pleasure  in  any  of  these  places,  gloomy, 
oppressing,  a  horrible  nightmare.  I  do  not  like  to  go  under 
the  earth  before  my  dead  body  is  carried  down  there. 

At  Old  Upsala  I  alighted  to  see  the  now  excavated  hills, 
which  bear  the  names  of  Odin,  Thor,  and  Freyr.  When  I  was 
here,  thirteen  years  ago,  they  lay  still  closed  as  they  had  been 
thousands  of  years.  The  old  woman  who  had  the  key  to  the 
entrance  of  the  hill,  and  whose  deceased  aunt  then  filled  the 
horn  of  mead  for  me,  was  happy  to  hear  my  name,  and  now 
she  would  also,  she  said,  illuminate  for  me,  as  she  did  for  the 
noblemen  who  had  been  here  from  Stockholm.  While  she 
made  her  preparations  I  mounted  the  hill  alone  with  prayer 
and  thanks  to  God  for  all  his  goodness  in  the  days  gone  by, 
since  I  was  last  here,  and  these  words  went  from  my  lips, 
“Thy  will  be  done  toward  me!”  Thus  do  I  go  to  church 
unconsciously,  now  in  the  woods,  now  upon  the  graves  of  for¬ 
mer  days,  and  now  in  my  little  solitary  room.  When  1  de¬ 
scended  she  had  placed  small  tapers  round  about  the  gate* 
way,  and  I  saw  the  old  urn  containing,  as  she  said,  the  bones 
of  Odin,  or  rather  the  bones  of  his  offspring,  those  of  the 
‘‘  Ynglinga-generation.”  Round  about  were  spread  ashes  of 
burnt  animals. 

After  again  greeting  my  friends  at  Upsala  I  c’rew  near 
Stockholm,  where  I  had  beer  received  in  the  house  of  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


355 

aged  Madame  Bremer  as  if  1  were  her  child,  when  the  giftea 
but  very  sick  Agathe  was  living,  the  sister  of  Fredrika 
Bremer,  to  whom  all  the  letters  from  America  are  written,  and 
who  was  dead  on  Fredrika’s  return.  There  was  comfort  and 
richness  in  the  old  mother’s  house,  where  I  sometimes  met 
with  the  great  family  circle,  whose  members  belong  to  the  best 
people  in  Sweden  ;  it  was  very  interesting  to  me  to  see  the  real 
difference  from  all  those  stories  that  circulated  in  Denmark 
and  abroad  about  this  authoress’s  family  and  conditions. 
When  she  first  appeared  in  public  it  was  said  she  was 

i 

governess  in  a  noble  family,  when  she  was  really  proprietor 
of  the  estate  “  Aosta,”  free  and  independent. 

In  a  foreign  city  I  feel  a  necessity  not  only  to  pay  my 
respects  to  the  living  men  of  genius  and  honor ;  I  must  also 
visit  the  graves  of  those  dear  or  famous  who  are  dead,  and 
carry  them  a  flower  or  pluck  one  from  their  graves.  At 
Upsala  I  had  been  at  the  grave  of  Geijer  ;  the  monument 
was  not  yet  erected  ;  the  grave  of  Torneros  was  overgrown 
with  grass  and  nettles.  At  Stockholm  I  went  to  the  graves 
where  repose  Nicander  and  Stagnelius.  I  drove  out  to  Solna, 
near  Stockholm,  and  visited  its  little  church-yard  where  Ber¬ 
zelius,  Chorasus,  Ingelmann,  and  Crusell  are  buried  ;  in  the 
larger  one  is  the  tomb  of  Wallin. 

My  principal  home  at  Stockholm  was  indeed  that  of  the 
poet,  Baron  Beskow,  who  was  ennobled  by  Carl  Johan  ;  he 
belongs  to  those  amiable  characters  from  whom  there  seems 
to  radiate  a  mild  lustre  over  life  and  nature ;  he  is  kind- 
hearted  and  full  of  talent;  that  one  may  see  By  h:s  draw¬ 
ings  and  his  music.  The  old  man  has  a  voice  remarkably  soft 
and  fresh;  his  position  as  poet  is  known,  and  his  tragedies 
have  also  become  popular  in  Germany  by  Oehlenschlager’s 
translations  ;  he  is  loved  by  his  king,  and  honored  by  all  ;  he 
is,  besides,  a  man  of  exceedingly  high  cultivation,  a  faithful 
and  dear  friend. 

The  last  day  of  my  stay  at  Stockholm  was  King  Oscar’s 
birthday  ;  I  was  honored  with  an  invitation  to  the  feast ;  the 
King,  the  Queen,  and  all  the  Princes  were  very  kind.  When  l 
took  leave,  1  was  ‘ouched  as  if  I  were  leaving  dear  ones. 

Oehlenschlager  mentions  in  his  “  Life,”  part  IV.,  page  85 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


356 

Count  Saltza,  and  one  becomes  curious  to  know  who  the  ir.  an 
was,  but  the  secret  is  not  told  Oehlenschlager  says,  “  One  of 
Bishop  Miinter’s  acquaintances  once  made  me  a  call  in  those 
days.  He  was  a  tall,  stout  Swede,  who,  on  entering,  gave  his 
name,  but  I  did  not  hear  it.  As  I  was  ashamed  to  ask  hirr, 
again,  I  hoped  to  hear  it  in  the  course  of  conversation,  o? 
pei  haps  to  learn  from  what  he  said  who  he  was.  He  told  me 
that  he  had  come  to  ask  me  how  I  liked  the  subject  for  a  vau- 
devi  .le  which  he  intended  to  write.  He  gave  it  to  me,  and  it 
was  a  very  pretty  one  ;  I  held  on  to  that  in  my  mind,  and 
thought,  of  course,  he  must  be  a  vaudeville  poet.  Then  he 
spoke  of  Miinter  as  an  old  friend  of  his,  “For  I  must  tell 
you,”  he  continued,  “  I  have  studied  theology,  and  have  trans¬ 
lated  the  Revelation  of  St.  John.”  A  vaudeville  poet,  I  now 
thought,  who  is  also  a  theologian.  “  Miinter  is  a  freemason 
too,”  he  continued  ;  “  all  his  freemasonry  he  learnt  from  me  ; 
because  I  am  Master  of  the  Chair.”  I  began  mentally  to 
reckon  up  :  vaudeville  poet,  theologian,  Master  of  the  Chair. 
Now  he  began  to  talk  about  Carl  Johan,  whom  he  praised 
much,  and  said,  “  I  know  him  well  !  I  have  drunk  many  a 
good  glass  with  him.”  I  said  to  myself,  vaudeville  poet,  theo¬ 
logian,  Master  of  the  Chair,  a  bosom  friend  of  Carl  Johan. 
He  continued,  “  Here  in  Denmark  people  do  not  wear  their 
orders  ;  to-morrow  I  go  to  church  and  I  shall  wear  mine.” 
“  That  you  may  do !  ”  I  answered  ;  and  he  went  on,  “  I  have 
them  all !  ”  I  said  to  myself :  vaudeville  poet,  theologian, 
Master  of  the  Chair,  bosom  friend  of  Carl  Johan,  Knight  of 
the  Order  of  Seraphim.  At  last  the  stranger  spoke  of  his  son, 
whom  he  had  taught  to  know  that  their  ancestor  was  the  first 
upon  the  walls  of  Jerusalem  at  its  conquest.  Now  it  was 
made  clear  to  me  that  he  might  be  the  Count  of  Saltza.  And 
it  really  was  he.” 

So  far  Oehlenschlager. 

Beskow  presented  me  in  the  antechamber  of  King  Oscar  to 
the  old  Count  Saltza,  who  immediately,  with  Swedish  hospi¬ 
tality,  invited  me  on  my  way  home  to  visit  him  at  his  estate 
of  Mem,  if  he  was  there  when  the  steamboat  passed ;  if  not, 
then  at  his  estate  at  Saeby,  near  Linkoping,  which,  further 
on  my  journey,  was  situated  not  far  from  the  canal.  I  re 


THE  STURV  OF  MY  LIFE .  ' 


357 


garded  it  as  one  of  those  kind  words  which  we  so  often  hear 
and  did  not  think  to  make  use  of  his  invitation  ;  but  in  the 
morning  on  my  journey  home,  when  we  left  the  Lake  of 
Roxen,  and  were  going  through  the  thirteen  water-gates  at 
Wreta  Church,  whose  royal  tombs  I  have  painted  in  “The 
Picture-book  without  Pictures,”  the  composer  Josephson,  with 
whom  I  had  lived,  as  I  have  before  mentioned,  in  Sorrento 
and  at  Capri,  and  lately  had  met  at  Upsala,  came  suddenly  on 
board  the  steamer  ;  he  was  Count  Saltza’s  guest  at  Saeby, 
and  having  calculated  by  what  steamer  I  should  come  on 
the  canal  route,  he  was  dispatched  to  the  locks  here  to  fetch 
me  off  in  a  carriage.  It  was  very  kind  of  the  old  Count ;  I 
gathered  my  luggage  together  in  a  hurry,  and  in  a  violent  rain¬ 
storm  we  drove  to  Saeby  to  the  castle,  built  in  Italian  style, 
where  the  old  Count  Saltza  resided  with  his  cultivated  and 
amiable  daughter,  the  widow-baroness  Fock. 

“  There  is  an  intellectual  relationship  between  us !  ”  said 
the  old  man  ;  “that  I  immediately  felt  when  I  saw  you!  we 
were  not  strangers  to  each  other !  ”  He  received  me  very 
kindly,  and  the  old  gentleman  with  his  many  peculiarities  be¬ 
came  soon  dear  to  me  by  his  genius  and  loveliness.  He  told 
me  of  his  acquaintance  with  kings  and  princes  ;  he  had  corre¬ 
sponded  with  Goethe  and  Jung  Stilling.  He  told  me  that  his 
ancestors  had  been  Norwegian  peasants  and  fishermen  ;  they 
went  to  Venice,  rescued  Christian  captives,  and  Charles  the 
Great  made  them  princes  of  Saltza.  That  little  fishing-place, 
situated  where  now  St.  Petersburg  stands,  had  belonged  to  his 
father’s  grandfather,  and  it  is  told  me,  that  Saltza  once  had 
said  in  joke  to  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  when  he  was  at  Stock¬ 
holm,  “That  is  really  my  ancestors’  ground  upon  which  the 
Impel ial  city  is  built !  ”  and  the  Emperor  is  said  to  have 
answered  merrily,  “  Well,  then,  come  and  take  it !  ”  There  is 
a  tradition  that  the  Empress  Catharine  I.  was  Swedish,  and 
it  is  confirmed  by  Saltza’s  accounts  and  records  ;  he  traces 
the  history  of  her  childhood  into  the  life  of  his  father’s  grand¬ 
father  ;  the  notes  he  has  made  about  it  are  very  interesting, 
and  he  relates  them  thus. 

One  day  his  father  read  a  compendium  of  the  history  of 
Russia,  but  he  s~on  laid  the  book  aside  and  said  that  it  was 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


358 

not  as  he  read  ;  he  knew  much  better  about  the  Empress 
Catharine,  and  then  he  told  this  story :  “  My  father’s  grand¬ 
father  was  the  General  Hans  Abraham  Kruse,  colonel  of  the 
Green  Dragoons.  When  he  was  lieutenant-colonel  and  lived 
on  the  lieutenant-colonel’s  place,  ‘  Broten,’  it  happened  that 
his  valet  de  chambre,  Jean  Rabe,  wished  to  marry  his  wife’s 
waiting-maid,  Catharine  Almpaph  •  Madame  Kruse,  born  An- 
nike  Sinclair,  prepared  a  brilliant  wedding,  and  even  had 
the  nuptial  bed  edged  with  golden  lace,  the  same  that 
Madame  Annike,  as  lady  at  the  court  of  Charles  X.’s 
queen,  had  worn  on  her  purple  robe  ;  it  became  afterwards 
an  adage  of  the  family,  ‘  As  stately  as  Jean  Rabe’s  nuptial 
bed.’  Jean  became  field-sergeant  of  Elfsborg’s  regiment,  but 
died,  as  also  his  wife,  very  soon  after,  leaving  only  one  daugh¬ 
ter,  Catharina,  who  was  brought  to  the  old  lady  Kruse  at 
Hokalla,  where  she  remained  two  years.  Then  it  came  about 
that  the  cousin  of  Madame  Annike,  the  Countess  Tisenhusen, 
came  visiting  and  found  Catharina,  who  was  eight  years  of 
age,  to  be  a  handsome  and  winning  child,  and  therefore  took 
her  home  with  her;  they  spent  the  winter  together  at  Stock¬ 
holm,  and  in  the  spring  they  made  a  voyage  to  Pomerania, 
where  the  Countess  was  to  receive  a  great  inheritance  ;  but 
on  arriving  at  the  island  of  Riigen,  a  guard-ship  which  was 
stationed  there  forbade  them  to  go  ashore,  as  the  plague  had 
broken  out  there.  They  returned  to  Stockholm,  and  spent 
the  following  winter  in  Government  Street  in  the  so-called 
house  Anchor  Crown.  An  aunt  of  the  Countess  died  at  Re- 
val,  and  she  went  over  there  in  the  month  of  May,  notwith¬ 
standing  the  Russians  just  then  often  invaded  and  devastated 
Esthland,  which  was  the  Countess’s  native  place  ;  for  this  rea¬ 
son,  also,  she  always  spoke  German  and  kept  German  help ; 
Catharina  was,  of  course,  also  obliged  to  learn  that  language. 
They  made  a  favorable  voyage,  and  a  stay  of  three  days. 
Catharina  was  sent  out  of  town  on  an  errand,  and  returning 
home  she  found  written  upon  the  door  of  the  house  that  no¬ 
body  was  allowed  to  enter  as  the  plague  was  there.  Catha¬ 
rina  cried  aloud  ;  the  porter  answered  from  within  that  the 
Countess  and  nine  other  persons  had  already  perished,  and 
he  himself  was  shut  in.  Catharina  ran  weeping  and  in  desr- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


359 


peration  jp  the  street,  when  she  met  the  minister,  pastoi 
Gluck  of  Majam,  who  had  just  come  to  the  city  in  otder  to 
get  a  nurse  for  his  little  son,  who  was  to  be  weaned ;  the 
minister  saw  the  distress  of  the  well-formed,  ruddy  girl,  and 
asked  what  was  the  matter  with  her.  Being  told  her  story, 
and  hearing  that  she  had  not  been  in  the  house,  he  engaged 
her  as  nurse,  and  Catharina  in  her  forsaken  condition  ac¬ 
cepted  the  place,  although  she  had  before  been  accus¬ 
tomed  to  better  life.  She  was  soon  a  great  favorite  in  ihe 
parsonage,  and  the  minister’s  wife  at  last  could  not  do  with¬ 
out  her  at  all.  Count  Saltza’s  grandfather’s  father,  when  he 
was  hunting  in  that  part  of  the  country,  passed  a  night  at 
the  parsonage.  After  the  battle  of  Norra,  in  the  time  of 
Chades  XII.,  Esthland  was  sacked  by  the  Russians,  who 
wer^  commanded  by  Anesen  Laputschin  ;  he  set  fire  to 
the  church  of  Majam,  took  the  whole  tenantry  on  Saltza’s 
estate,  and  sent  away  the  faithful  vassals  to  Siberia ;  while 
the  parsonage  stood  in  flames,  he  saw  for  the  first  time 
Catharina,  and  kept  her  as  his  own  share  of  the  plunder. 
Menschikow,  having  become  prince  and  the  favorite  of  the 
Czar,  remarked  the  beauty  of  Catharina  when  he  saw  her 
at  Laputschin’s  house,  \yhere  she  waited  on  them  ;  the  day 
afi*r  she  was  sent  to  him  as  his  bondwoman  ;  he  did  not 
ca**e  much  about  women,  and  considered  her  but  a  nice  ser¬ 
vant-girl.  One  day  she  was  scouring  the  floor,  when  the 
Fmperor  entered,  but  as  Menschikow  was  not  at  home,  he 
turned  to  go  away  again,  when  he  saw  upon  the  table  the 
ptjte  of  comfits,  which  was  always  set  before  him  when  he 
came.  He  took  of  them  ;  Catharina  did  not  know  him,  and 
continued  to  scour  the  floor  ;  he  looked  at  her  and  brushed 
aside  with  his  hand  the  hair  on  her  forehead.  ‘You  are  a 
beautiful  girl  !’  said  he  ;  she  blushed,  he  caressed  her,  gave 
her  a  kiss  and  went  away. 

“  Catharina,  very  much  displeased,  told  Menschikow  of  the 
unknown  officer  who  had  come,  had  eaten  of  the  comfits,  and 
allowed  himself  to  kiss  her.  When  she  had  given  a  descrip¬ 
tion  of  him,  Menschikow  understood  that  the  Emperor  had 
been  there,  and  took  advantage  of  tne  meeting.  Orders  had 
*ust  then  been  given  to  wear  a  new  costume  of  a  different  kind 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


360 

from  what  had  formerly  been  worn  ;  Catharina  was  dressed 
in  one  of  those  appointed  for  women,  which  was  very  becom¬ 
ing  to  her,  and  very  elegant  besides  ;  the  head-dress  resembled 
much  that  of  the  Dutch  peasants.  In  this  attire  she  was  to 
deliver  to  the  Emperor  a  plate  of  comfits,  consisting  of  boiled 
fruits,  together  with  a  carefully  expressed  letter,  insinuating 
that  the  Czar  might  not  disdain  the  comfits  and  hei  whc 
brought  them.”  How  she  afterwards  became  the  Czar’s  con¬ 
sort,  the  story  goes  on  to  tell. 

The  grandfather’s  father  came  back  during  her  reign  from 
his  Siberian  captivity,  where  he  had  been  sixteen  years. 
There  was  just  then  a  great  festival  in  the  Imperial  garden 
at  Moscow ;  he  was  invited  to  it,  and  came  in  attendance  with 
the  old  Knight  Gagarin,  who,  during  his  captivity,  had  been 
a  true  friend  to  Saltza.  Herr  Gagarin  could  not  endure  Men- 
schikow,  and  when  he  entered  and  Menschikow  did  not  ac¬ 
knowledge  his  salutation,  he  said :  “  Did  you  not  observe  that 
I  saluted  you  ?  ”  Menschikow  did  not  answer,  but  smiled  con¬ 
temptuously,  and  the  old  man  began  then  to  use  violent  lan¬ 
guage.  Menschikow  called  upon  his  people,  who  fell  upon 
the  old  man  and  trod  upon  him.  Saltza,  defending  his  friend, 
was  now  also  attacked.  Catharina*  observed  it  from  her  ele¬ 
vated  place,  recognized  the  voice  of  her  friend  of  earlier  days, 
and  cried  to  Menschikow :  “  If  you  dare  touch  a  hair  upon 
Saltza’s  head,  your’s  shall  to-morrow  be  put  into  the  Krem¬ 
lin  !  ”  And  the  fight  was  ended. 

Afterwards  Saltza  became  president  of  the  Board  of  Trade, 
and  was  always  in  favor  with  the  Empress;  his  family  is  still 
to  be  found  in  Russia.  Old  Saltza  passes  for  one  who  secs 
ghosts.  Carl  Johan,  who,  according  to  Lenormann's  predic¬ 
tion  was  to  become  king,  placed  great  confidence  in  him,  and 
the  marvel  is  told  that  the  king’s  day  of  death  occurred  upon 
the  same  date  as  Saltza  had  predicted.  Here  in  that  great 
hall  of  knights  at  Saeby,  where  now  Saltza  and  I  were  seated, 
Carl  Johan  and  Queen  Eugenie  had  often  dined  :  round 
about  hung  pictures  of  Saltza’s  knightly  ancestors  ;  the  furni¬ 
ture  consisted  of  chairs  and  pieces  in  antiquated  style  ;  the 
large  hall  was  heated  by  two  fire-places.  Here  I  sat  with 
the  worthy  old  gentleman  ;  we  talked  of  spirits,  and  he  told 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


36I 

me,  with  great  seriousness  and  belief  in  its  truth,  how  his 
grandfather  had  appeared  to  him  in  the  night,  asked  him  it 
he  would  go  with  him  to  see  the  heaven  of  God,  and  addea . 
“  ‘  But  then  you  must  first  try  to  died  He  touched  me,1' 
said  the  worthy  old  man,  “  and  I  fell  as  in  a  swoon.  £  Is  not 
death  something  else  than  this  ?  ’  —  ‘  No,’  said  my  grandfather, 
and  then  I  stood  in  the  court  of  God’s  heaven.  It  was  the 
most  delicious  garden.” 

The  description  of  it  Was,  as  Saltza  gave  it,  entirely  of  some 
earthly  place  ;  I  could  not  perceive  anything  new.  He  met 
there  his  brother  and  sister  ;  the  latter  was,  when  she  died, 
only  a  little  child  ;  he  did  not  recognize  her  until  she  said 
who  she  was.  “  ‘  It  is  very  well  you  came  now,’  said  she. 
‘  To-day  it  is  the  anniversary  day  of  Christ’s  name,  and  I  shall 
go  from  the  children’s  heaven  into  the  great  God’s  heaven  !  ’  ” 

“  But,”  replied  I,  “  why  does  not  the  child  go  directly  into 
God’s  great  heaven,  for  so  we  are  -told  in  the  Bible.”  — 
“  Very  good,  but  I  have  seen  it !  ”  said  he.  Yet  what  he  told 
of  God  was  very  beautiful.  “  Standing  there  in  heaven,  I 
perceived  a  flash  of  light  that  I  could  not  endure  ;  I  threw 
myself  down,  there  was  a  sound  of  music,  such  as  I  never 
had  heard  before  ;  I  had  a  feeling  of  happiness,  I  felt  an  ex¬ 
ceeding  joy  !  ‘  What  is  that  ?  ’  said  I.  ‘  It  was  God,  who 

passed  by  !  ’  answered  my  grandfather.”  The  old  man  told 
me  all  this  with  an  earnestness  and  conviction  that  made  a 
peculiar  impression  upon  me.  “  There  above  I  gained  knowl¬ 
edge  of  all  that  shall  happen  !  ”  said  he  ;  “  I  know  of  the  end 
of  all  things  ;  at  the  time  I  was  only  fifteen  years  old.” 

During  my  stay  at  Saeby  the  old  Count’s  anniversary  day, 
u  Frederick’s  Day,”  occurred  ;  it  was  interesting  to  see  the 
Swedish  manner  in  which  it  was  celebrated.  In  one  of  the 
rooms  down  stairs  was  erected  an  arch  of  beech-leaves,  and 
above  his  monogram  was  placed  a  beautiful  crown  of  beech- 
leaves,  and  roses  instead  of  jewels.  Sitting  at  the  coffee-table 
we  heard  a  report  out  on  the  lake  ;  one  of  the  servants  entered, 
and,  with  a  loud  voice,  almost  as  if  he  had  learned  his  words 
by  heart,  he  announced,  while  he  could  not  help  at  the  same 
fime  betraying  with  a  smile  that  the  whole  was  a  comedy,  “A 
ship,  the  North  Star ,  is  riding  at  anchor  without,  and  has 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


362 

foreign  sailors  onboard!”  They  were  now  ii.vited  to  come 
in ;  shots  were  heard  from  the  ship,  the  steward,  his  wife,  and 
two  daughters  entered.  These  were  the  foreign  sailors,  who 
arrived  from  his  estate  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake.  At  the 
dinner- table  were  several  other  stewards  and  many  other  offi¬ 
cers  of  his  estates,  and  families  from  the  neighboring  estates 
came  with  their  congratulations.  Outside  of  the  castle  marched 
and  were  drawn  up  in  ranks  all  the  school  children,  girls 
and  boys,  each  of  them  holding  a  little  green  branch  ;  they 
were  conducted  by  the  schoolmaster,  who  made  a  speech  in 
verse  to  the  old  Count.  He  stepped  out  before  them  and  was 
received  with  a  resounding  hurra.  I  observed  that  the  school¬ 
master  got  money,  the  children  coffee  and  meat,  and  afterward 
were  permitted  to  dance  in  the  large  front  room,  where  a 
peasant  played  the  violin  ;  the  Baroness  went  kindly  amongst 
them,  showed  the  peasants  the  halls  and  rooms  of  the  castle, 
and  treated  them  plentifully  with  eating  and  drinking.  Just 
then  the  mail  arrived  with  letters  and  newspapers.  “News 
from  Denmark  ;  a  victory  at  Fredericia  !  ”  was  shouted  tri¬ 
umphantly  ;  it  was  the  first  printed  and  complete  information 
about  it ;  all  were  interested  in  it.  I  seized  the  list  of  killed 
and  wounded. 

In  honor  of  the  Danish  victory  old  Saltza  opened  a  bottle 
of  champagne  ;  the  daughter  had  in  a  hurry  contrived  a  Dan- 
nebrog  flag,  which  was  fastened  up.  The  old  man  who  be¬ 
fore  had  spoken  of  the  ancient  hatred  between  Swedes  and 
Danes,  and  preserved  three  Danish  balls,  —  of  which  one  had 
wounded  his  father,  the  second  his  grandfather,  and  the  third 
had  killed  his  grandfather’s  father,  —  now  in  the  time  of  bioth- 
erhood  raised  his  full  glass  for  old  Denmark,  and  spoke  so 
kindly  and  beautifully  of  the  honor  and  victory  of  the  Danes 
that  tears  rose  in  my  eyes.  There  was  among  the  guests  a 
Herman  governess  quite  old.  I  believe  she  was  from  Bruns¬ 
wick.  She  had  lived  many  years  in  Sweden,  and  hearing  now 
what  Saltza  in  his  speech  said  about  the  Germans,  she  burst 
out  weeping,  and  said  innocently  to  me  :  “  I  cannot  help  it  I  ” 
When  I  had  returned  my  thanks  for  Saltza’s  toast,  the  first 
thing  I  had  to  do  was  to  give  her  my  hand  and  say,  “  There 
will  soon  come  better  days  ;  Germans  and  Danes  shall  again 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


363 

grasp  one  another’s  hands  as  we  now  do,  and  drink  a  glass 
for  the  blessed  peace  and  so  we  clinked  the  glasses  to¬ 
gether. 

The  sympathy  I  found  here  for  Denmark  and  the  Danes 
was  shown  throughout  the  country,  and  as  a  Dane  myself 
those  expressions  were  dear  to  me.  At  Linkoping  I  alighted 
at  Professor  Omann’s,  and  was  surprised  to  see  in  the  garden 
so  many  young  men  assembled  in  order  to  give  me  a  festive 
reception  ;  the  poet  Ridderstad  had  written  three  beautiful 
songs,  the  first  written  to  the  melody  of  “  There  is  a  Charming 
Land,”  brought  me  “  A  Greeting  to  Denmark.”  While  they 
intoned  the  song  the  most  splendid  rainbow  lighted  up  the 
firmament,  as  a  token  of  peace.  I  was  extremely  touched  by 
it,  and  now  there  sounded  a  song  to  “  The  Dannebrog.”  At 
intervals  between  the  songs,  affectionate  speeches  were  de¬ 
livered  touching  Sweden’s  love  to  Denmark  and  their  joy  at 
the  victory  ;  among  the  speeches  was  one  in  honor  of  those 
killed  at  Fredericia  ;  I  was  moved  to  tears,  I  felt  so  Danish 
in  mind.  S.vedish  and  Danish  flags  waved,  and  when  I  de¬ 
parted  for  Berg,  where  I  was  to  go  on  board  the  steamer  the 
next  morning,  Ridderstad  and  many  other  friends  accompanied 
me  with  songs  and  greetings. 

I  intended  to  stay  at  Motala  a  couple  of  days  ;  all  the  way 
hereto  may  rightly  be  called  “  The  Gotha  Canal’s  Garden.” 
There  is  a  beautiful  blending  of  Swedish  and  Danish  nature, 
rich  beech  woods  bending  over  the  lakes,  rocks,  and  roaring 
streams.  A  young  bachelor  offered  me,  in  the  inn  near  the 
manufactory,  his  comfortable  little  room,  and  moved  him¬ 
self  to  a  friend's,  that  I  might  find  myself  provided  for,  and 
that  was  the  first  time  we  had  met.  It  was  Mr.  C.  D.  Ny- 
gren,  since  deceased,  a  man  of  a  poetic  nature,  a  friend  of 
Fredrika  Bremer,  and  an  admirer  of  my  poetry.  The  river 
Motala  flowed  below  my  windows,  among  leafy  trees  and  pines, 
so  swiftly,  so  green,  and  transparent  that  I  could  distinguish  in 
the  depth  every  stone,  every  fish  ;  upon  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  canal  is  the  tomb  of  Platen  which  is  saluted  with  cannon 
shots  by  all  the  passing  steamboats.  There  in  the  country  I 
had  a  kind,  fresh  letter  from  Dickens,  who  had  received  and 
read  “  The  Two  Baronesses  .  ”  it  was  a  white  day  for  me  ;  most 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


364 

charming  roses,  brought  for  me,  made  a  splendid  show  upon 
my  table. 

From  here  I  made  an  excursion  to  the  ancient  Vadstena, 
whose  rich  castle  is  now  but  a  large  granary,  • — whose  mighty 
monastery  is  a  bedlam.  At  my  departure  from  Motala  I  was 
staying  in  the  little  inn  down  by  the  bridge  ;  I  was  to  set  out 
early  in  the  morning  and  had  therefore  gone  to  bed  earl)  ;  I 
fell  asleep  immediately,  but  awoke  on  hearing  beautiful  sing. ng 
from  many  voices.  I  got  up  ;  it  sounded  deliciously  ;  I  opened 
the  door  and  asked  the  girl  if  there  were  any  high  guests  here 
to  whom  the  serenade  was  given.  “Of  course  it  is  for  you, 
si r  !  ”  she  said.  “  For  me  !  ”  I  exclaimed,  and  could  nol 
understand  it.  They  sang:  “There  is  a  Charming  Land  !  y‘ 
The  song  was  for  me  ;  I  will  not  say  for  the  poet  Andersen, 
but  for  Andersen  as  a  Dane  ;  it  was  love  to  the  Danes  that 
also  here  burst  out  in  flower  for  me.  The  mechanics  at 
Motala  had  learned  that  I  had  returned  here  again  from 
Vadstena,  and  that  I  was  to  start  again  next  morning;  those 
good  people  had  come  to  give  me  a  token  of  their  esteem  and 
sympathy.  I  now  went  out  to  them,  and  shook  hands  with 
the  nearest  of  them  ;  I  was  deeply  affected  and  thankful  ;  of 
course  I  could  not  sleep  all  the  night  after. 

At  each  place  I  reached,  every  day  was  like  a  festival  ! 
Everywhere  was  shown  sympathy  for  Denmark  so  affection¬ 
ately,  so  faithfully,  that  the  Danish  people  can  hardly  form  an 
idea  of  it.  I  met  friends  and  hospitality  ;  even  the  little  town 
of  Mariestad  would  not  let  me  go  without  it.  Everywhere  I  was 
invited  to  move  into  the  houses  of  families  and  to  be  their 
guest;  they  offeied  me  carriage  and  horses,  in  short  they 
showed  me  all  attention  possible.  I  spent  several  days  at 
Kinnekulle,  in  the  society  of  the  senior  Count  Hamilton  ;  and 
also  at  Blomberg,  where  one  of  the  sons  is  married  to  the 
daughter  of  Geijer,  who  resembles  very  much  Jenny  Lind  even 
in  the  sound  of  her  voice  ;  she  sung  beautifully  all  her  father’s 
songs.  Little  Anna,  the  only  child  of  the  house,  usually 
bashful  toward  all  strangers,  came  immediately  to  me  ;  we 
seemed  to  know  each  other  at  once.  Wenersborg  also  offered 
me  a  circle  of  friends,  who  took  me  to  the  beautiful  environs, 
ind  at  Trolhatta  the  stay  was  prolonged  for  several  days  . 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


36s 

here  in  the  wood  near  the  sluices  I  found  a  blessed  home 
with  Lieutenant-colonel  Warberg  and  his  wife;  they  caied 
comfortably  and  kindly  for  me. 

From  Gothaborg  I  made  an  excursion  to  the  island  of 
Marstrand,  where  Fredrika  Bremer  visited  her  sister  Agaiha, 
when  she  made  use  of  the  baths.  The  many  small  rocky 
islands  on  the  Swedish  coast  form  excellent  harbors  with  deep 
waters  ;  the  wild  rose  bloomed  upon  those  sun-heated  rocks. 
The  Italian  opera  troop  from  Stockholm  gave  concerts  in  the 
forenoon  :  I  found  here  the  liveliness  of  a  southern  watering' 
place.  Fredrika  Bremer  was  going  to  America  ;  she  accom¬ 
panied  me  to  Gothaborg ;  on  board  the  ship  a  company 
gathered  around  us  and  sang  Swedish  and  Danish  songs. 
“  There  is  a  Charming  Land,”  seemed  to  be  the  favorite  song 
of  ihe  Swedes  ;  it  was  sung  again  as  a  farewell  to  me. 

A  few  days  after  I  was  again  in  Denmark.  My  book  “  In 
Sweden,”  perhaps  the  most  carefully  written  of  my  works, 
gives  the  intellectual  result  of  this  journey,  and  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  it  displays  better  than  any  other  of  my  writings 
those  points  most  characteristic  in  me:  pictures  of  nature,  the 
wonderfu*:,  the.  humorous,  and  lyric,  as  far  as  the  last  may  be 
given  in  prose.  The  Swedish  paper,  “  Bore,”  was  the  first 
that  gave  a  critique  of  the  book. 

At  home,  where  the  critics  of  late,  not  only  had  adopted  a 
more  decent  tone,  when  my  works  were  spoken  of,  but  showed 
also  greater  attention  to  them  and  more  true  acknowledgment, 
my  book  was  mentioned  with  praise  and  good-will,  especially 
the  chapter  “  A  Story.” 

In  England,  where  “  In  Sweden  ”  was  published  at  the  same 
time  as  the  Danish  original,  I  met  the  same  good-will,  the 
same  generous  criticism,  as  almost  always  has  been  the  case, 
until  I  met  an  attack,  and  that  from  a  person  from  whom  I 
least  expected  it,  —  from  her  who  introduced  my  writings  into 
England,  and  who  received  me  there  with  such  great  friendli¬ 
ness, —  Mary  Howitt ;  it  surprised  and  grieved  me,  and  was 
something  so  unexpected  that  I  could  scarcely  believe  it.  I 
have  before  spoken  of  our  meeting  in  London  ;  how,  during  my 
stay  there,  my  friends  who  had  an  interest  in  me,  so  arranged 
it  for  me  that  my  works,  from  the  favor  they  had  received  in 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


366 

great  England,  might  also  bring  me  some  advantage  in  pecu¬ 
niary  matters. 

The  estimable  and  clever  book-seller,  Richard  Bentley,  con¬ 
tinued  to  be  my  publisher,  and  I  was  to  send  him  from  Copen¬ 
hagen  an  English  manuscript.  I  did  this,  and  Mary  Hovitt  did 
not  translate  either  “  The  Two  Baronesses  ”  or  “  In  Sweden  ;  ” 
but  that  this  should  make  her  angry  with  me,  and  lead  her  to 
criticise  me  now  most  severely  in  her  and  William  Howitt's 
work,  —  “  The  Literature  and  Romance  of  Northern  Europe,” 
—  that  I  did  not  expect.  All  the  Danish  poets,  great  and 
small,  are  kindly  mentioned  in  it,  but  not  I,  who  once  seemed 
to  be  her  favorite  ;  she  writes,  having  first  spoken  kindly  of 
such  of  my  books  as  she  has  translated  :  — 

“  But  Andersen’s  subsequent  productions  have  been  fail¬ 
ures  ;  those  published  in  England  have  dropped  nearly  dead 
from  the  press  ;  and  the  reason  for  this  is  very  obvious.  An¬ 
dersen  is  a  singular  mixture  of  simplicity  and  worldliness. 
The  child-like  heart  which  animates  his  best  compositions 
appears  to  youV  astonished  vision  in  real  life,  in  the  shape  of 
a  petit  maitre  sighing  after  the  notice  of  princes.  The  poet  is 
lost  to  you  in  the  egotist ;  and  once  perceiving  this,  you  have 
the  key  to  the  charm  of  one  or  two  romances  and  the  flatness 
of  the  rest;  for  he  always  paints  himself — his  own  mind, 
history,  and  feelings.  This  delights  in  a  first  story,  less  in  the. 
second,  and  not  at  all  in  the  third  ;  for  it  is  but  cra?nbe  repe- 
tita.  Perhaps  much  of  Andersen’s  fame  in  this  country  arose 
from  the  very  fact  of  the  almost  total  ignorance  here  of  the 
host  of  really  great  and  original  writers  which  Denmark  pos¬ 
sessed  ;  Andersen  stood  forward  as  a  wonder  from  a  country  of 
whose  literary  affluence  the  British  public  was  little  cognizant, 
while  in  reality  he  was  but  an  average  sample  of  a  numerous 
and  giant  race.” 

How  entirely  different  had  the  same  gifted  lady  conceived 
and  mentioned  me  a  few  years  before  when  I  visited  London ; 
then  she  wrote  in  “  Howitts’  Journal  ”  a  most  cordial  welcome 
s>f  the  Danish  poet  to  English  soil. 

How  shall  I  be  able  to  compare  those  earlier  judgments 
with  the  later,  written  by  a  lady  of  genius,  and  as  it  appears 
also  of  affection  for  me  and  mv  muse  ?  On  Miss  Bremer’s 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  367 

return  from  America  she  passed  through  London,  and  I  asked 
her  about  Mary  Howitt,  whom  I  knew  she  had  visited. 

“  The  good  Mary  Howitt,”  she  said,“  spoke  so  kindly  of  you, 
spoke  with  tears,  saying,  ‘  he  will  not  have  anything  to  do 
with  me  !  ’  ”  How  can  I  understand  those  words  so  gener 
ously  spoken  and  those  so  harshly  written.  Well,  they  have 
perhaps  their  origin  in  a  momentary  bad  humor,  that  we  ali 
may  have  ;  she  may  perhaps  also  have  changed  her  op’.i  ion  of 
me,  as  she  once  did.  There  is  no  anger  in  m-y  mind,  and  J 
stretch  forth  my  hand  as  a  friend  desiring  reconciliation. 

The  novel  “The  Two  Baronesses”  was  nevertheless  wed 
received,  and  £  In  Sweden  ”  not  less.  The  very  same  year  that 
Mary  Howitt  pronounced  her  severe  judgment,  the  last  book 
obtained  even  the  honor  of  being  made  popular ;  for  in  con¬ 
nection  with  “  The  Story  of  my  Life,”  it  was  published  in  “  The 
Popular  Library,”  which  is  generally  known  under  the  name, 
“  one  shilling  editions,”  and  sold  by  thousands.  The  transla¬ 
tion  is  excellent,  and  the  translator,  Kenneth  MacKenzie,  ex¬ 
presses  himself  in  a  postscript  so  warmly  and  generously,  that 
Mary  Howitt’s  sharp  words  are  blunted.  The  “  Athenceum’s  ” 
criticism  of  the  last  book  of  mine  published  in  England,  “  A 
Poet’s  Day  Dreams,”  as  they  call  my  stories,  indicates  the 
same  sympathy  and  favor  :  — 

“  By  the  form  and  fashion  of  this  little  book  (dedicated  to 
Mr.  Dickens)  it  appears  to  be  meant  for  a  Christmas  and 
New  Year’s  gift.  But  it  will  be  welcome  in  any  month  of 
flowers  or  harvests,  or  at  the  canonical  time,  — • 

‘  when  icicles  hang  by  the  wall ;  ’  — 

since  it  may  be  read  and  remembered  by  poets  and  by  the 
children  of  poets  long  after  this  busy  year  and  its  busy  people 
shall  have  been  gathered  to  their  fathers.  Our-  antipathy  to 
sentimentality  (as  the  word  is  commonly  understood)  needs 
not  to  be  again  expressed.  For  what  is  false  and  sickly,  be 
it  ever  so  graceful,  ever  so  alluring,  we  have  neither  eye,  ear, 
nor  heart ;  but  for  sentiment,  —  as  something  less  deep  than 
passionate  emotion,  less  high  than  enthusiastic  faith,  less  wild 
than  the  meteoric  extravagances  of  Genius,  —  we  have  a  liking 
apart  and  peculiar,  — and  those  who  have  not,  relish  Imagina* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  ^IFE. 


3^3 

tion  only  by  halves.  For  quaintness,  humor,  and  tenderness 
Mr.  Andersen’s  little  tales  are  unique.  Let  those  who  desire 
warrant  for  our  assertion  read  ‘  Good  for  Nothing,’  ‘  Grief  of 
Heart,’  ‘Under  the  Willow-tree,’  and  ‘It  is  very  true,’  in 
this  volume.  Let  any  who  accuse  these  of  being  small,  try  to 
produce  anything  which  shall  be  so  complete,  so  delicate,  and 
so  suggestive.  They  are  on  the  most  tiny  scale,  it  is  true,  anc 
mostly  concern  tiny  things  and  trite  affections  ;  but  they  are 
nevertheless, -real  works  of  art,  and,  as  such,  deserve  a  warm 
welcome,  from  all  who  love  art  and  its  works.” 

The  new  year  1850  opened  with  a  grief  for  me,  —  a  grief  also 
for  Denmark  and  for  all  that  is  beautiful.  My  first  letter  that 
year  to  Weimar  announces  it:  — 

“Oehlenschlager  is  dead  ;  he  died  the  twentieth  of  January, 
the  very  day  of  the  death  of  King  Christian  VIII.  ;  yes,  almost 
the  same  hour  of  death.  I  went  out  twice  late  in  the  night  to 
Oehlenschlager,  passing  the  palace.  I  knew  from  the  doc¬ 
tors  that  he  was  near  death,  and  it  was  strange  to  me  to  look 
up  at  the  dark  windows  of  the  palace  and  think,  that  two  years 
ago  I  came  here  anxious  for  my  dear  king,  and  now  I  came 
again  with  similar  feelings  for  a  king  —  a  poet-king.  His 
death  was  without  pain  ;  his  children  stood  around  him,  and 
he  asked  them  to  read  aloud  a  scene  from  his  tragedy,  ‘  Socra¬ 
tes,’  where  he  speaks  of  immortality  and  assurance  of  eternal 
life  ;  he  was  quiet,  and  praying  that  the  agony  might  not  be 
hard,  laid  down  his  head  and  died.  I  saw  his  corpse  ;  the 
jaundice  had  given  it  the  appearance  of  a  bronze  statue,  and 
nothing  showed  death ;  the  forehead  was  beautiful,  the  ex¬ 
pression  noble.  On  the  twenty- sixth  of  January  the  people 
carried  him  to  the  grave,  —  the  people  in  the  true  sense  of  that 
word,  for  there  were  public  functionaries,  —  students,  sailors, 
soldiers,  all  classes,  who  by  turns  carried  the  bier  all  the  long 
way  to  Fredericksborg,  where  he  was  born,  and  where  he  wished 
to  be  buried.  The  leal  funeral  services  took  place  in  Our 
Lady’s  Church.  The  funeral  committee  had  requested  two 
poets  to  write  the  cantata  ;  one  was  old  Grundtvig  and  the 
other  was  myself.  The  Bishop  of  Seeland  gave  the  funeral 
address.  For  the  commemoration  at  the  theatre  there  was 
appointed  to  be  played  his  tragedy,  ‘  Hakon  Jarl,’  and  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  369 

scene  of  ‘  Socrates,’  which  was  read  to  Oehlenschlager  at  the 
hour  of  his  death  !  ” 

To  my  great  joy  Oehlenschlager  became  in  his  last  years 
very  mild  and  kind  toward  me,  and  warmly  expressed  his  ap¬ 
preciation  of  my  work.  One  day  when  I  was  a  little  grieved 
at  some  sneer  against  me  in  one  of  the  papers,  he  gave  me 
his  little  North  Star  decoration,  which  order  I  had  receivt  d 
from  the  Swedish  king  on  the  burial  day  of  Christian  VIII. 
“  I  have  worn  that  decoration,”  Oehlenschlager  said  ;  “  I  give 
it  to  you  as  a  remembrance  of  me  !  You  are  a  true  poet,  I 
say,  let  others  jabber  as  they  will  !”  and  he  reached  me  the 
North  Star  decoration,  which  I  own  and  keep. 

The  fourteenth  of  November,  1849,  there  had  been  a  festi¬ 
val  in  his  honor  at  the  Marksmen’s  Hall,  and  it  was  but  a  short 
time  after  that  this  funeral  commemoration  followed.  We  know 
that  the  poet  himself  had  requested  the  performance  of  his 
tragedy  “  Socrates  ;  ”  this,  however,  was  not  granted.  It  is 
strange  that  the  great  poet,  when  dying,  should  think  of  the 
honor  to  be  paid  him.  I  would  rather  wish  that,  like  Lamar¬ 
tine’s  “  dying  poet,”  when  reminded  of  his  great  fame  here  upon 
earth,  he  might  have  answered,  “  Do  you  believe  that  the  swan, 
flying  toward  the  sun,  thinks  of  the  little  shadow  its  flapping 
wings  throw  upon  the  waves  ?  ”  The  theatre  was  crowded 
with  people  on  the  occasion,  and  all  were  dressed  in  mourning. 
The  first  rows  of  boxes  were  covered  with  mourning-crape, 
and  Oehlenschlager’s  seat  in  the  parquet  was  distinguished 
by  crape  and  a  laurel-wreath.  “How  good  that  is  of  Hei¬ 
berg  !  ”  said  a  lady  ;  “  it  would  touch  Oehlenschlager  himself, 
if  he  saw  it!”  and  I  could  not  forbear  answering,  “Yes,  it 
would  please  him  to  see  that  he  still  had  a  seat !  ”  Whe«. 
Heiberg  entered  upon  his  office  as  director  of  the  theatre, 
all  free  seats  for  poets,  composers,  ci-devant  directors,  and 
different  functionaries  had  been  reduced  to  the  end  places 
and  corners  of  each  of  the  few  benches  we  have  in  the  par¬ 
quet,  and  to  those  were  also  admitted  all  tne  singers,  actors, 
and  dancers,  so  that  if  all  were  coming,  not  the  third  part  of 
them  could  get  places  even  if  they  were  standing  up. 

Oehlenschlager,  while  he  lived,  went  to  the  theatre  every 
oight,  but  when  it  happened  that  he  did  not  come  punctually, 

24 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


37° 

and  that  none  of  the  persons  seated  would  show  him  the  at  ten* 
tion  of  offering  him  his  place,  he  was  obliged  to  stand  ;  once 
or  twice  he  turned  to  me,  and  asked  in  a  joking  but  pitiful 
tone,  “  How  dare  I  be  here?”  To-night  it  seems  he  had  a 
place.  It  was  the  same  seat  he  had  appointed  for  himself 
when  he  was  one  of  the  directors  ;  Thorwaldsen  also  had  such 
a  seat  Heiberg  may  be  excused,  because  the  Diet  ordered 
him  to  reduce  the  number  of  free  seats ;  but  for  Oehlenschla- 
ger,  the  first  dramatic  poet  of  the  stage,  it  seems  to  me  that 
he  ought  to  have  had  a  seat.  A  drop  of  bitterness  went 
through  me  at  this  commemoration,  but  it  was  not  the  first 
time  such  had  happened  to  me  at  the  Danish  theatre. 

I  now  turn  to  another  of  our  theatres,  that  of  the  Casino,  or,  as 
expressed  by  one  of  our  authors,  “  Only  Casino  !  ”  Copenha¬ 
geners  have  had  for  the  last  two  years  a  people’s  theatre,  which 
has  grown  up,  we  may  almost  say,  without  knowing  it ;  nobody 
thought  of  it,  at  least  of  its  making  any  progress.  Mr.  Over- 
skou  had,  among  many  others,  thought,  spoken,  and  written  of 
such  a  theatre  ;  but  that  was  only  something  on  paper.  At 
that  time  we  possessed  a  young  and  able  man,  endowed  with 
a  remarkable  talent  of  carrying  out  his  projects,  even  though 
he  was  not  himself  a  man  of  means.  He  was  a  real  genius 
in  his  operations;  he  knew  how  to  contrive  a  “Tivoli”  for 
the  Copenhageners,  which  may  be  compared  with,  and  perhaps 
still  surpassed  in  design  and  plan  all  other  similar  places  of 
amusement ;  he  procured  us  also  “  Casino,”  where  people  at 
cheap  rates  had  music  and  comedy,  and  the  city  a  large  and 
tasteful  place  for  its  most  frequented  concerts  and  masquer¬ 
ades,  —  soon  a  place  for  the  most  popular  amusements.  That 
man  was  George  Carstensen  :  his  name  and  ability  come  back 
to  us  from  America  of  late,  as  the  one  who,  in  connection 
with  Ch.  Gildemeister,  built  the  famous  Crystal  Palace  in  New 
York.  Carstensen  was  very  good-natured,  and  that  I  believe 
was  his  greatest  fault ;  he  was  very  often  ridiculed,  called 
“  maitre  de  plaisir ;  ”  nevertheless  his  activity  was  of  perma¬ 
nent  usefulness,  and  is  so  still.  When  the  Casino  building 
was  raised,  the  theatre  was  not  looked  upon  as  the  main 
thing ;  that  came  about  under  the  direction  of  the  active  Mr. 
Lange,  and  little  by  little  grew  in  the  favor  of  the  public,  and 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 

t 


371 

in  its  own  strength.  There  was  a  time  when  the  Casino  shares 
stood  so  low  that  some  of  them,  it  is  said,  were  sold  for  a  glass 
of  punch,  but  the  whole  soon  took  a  great  start. 

The  repertory  was  very  limited  ;  no  Danish  author  of  ce¬ 
lebrity  had  shown  any  desire  or  will  to  write  a  work  for  this 
stage.  Mr.  Lange  proposed  to  me  to  show  my  sympathy,  and 
my  essay  was  successful  beyond  all  expectation.  1  had  read  a 
story  in  “The  Thousand  and  One  Nights,”  —  “  The  Story  of 
Prince  Zeyn  Alasnam,  the  King  of  the  Ghosts,”  —  which  I  found 
very  suitable  for  an  opera  text ;  but  although  the  subject  inter¬ 
ested  me,  I  gave  it  up,  as  I  knew  that  in  this  country  operas  re¬ 
lating  to  enchantment,  even  with  the  very  best  of  music,  are  not 
understood  or  valued  :  I  had  a  proof  of  this  in  “'The  Raven.” 
On  reading  Gozzi,  I  found  the  subject  treated  as  a  comedy  of 
enchantment ;  but  still  better  than  this,  and  more  suited  to  rep¬ 
resentation,  was  one  by  Raimund,  in  his  “  The  Ghost-King’s 
Diamond.”  I  had  earlier,  as  is  known,  essayed  my  ability  in 
this  style  of  comedy.  I  wrote  for  the  Royal  Theatre  “  The 
Flower  of  Fortune,”  which  indeed  was  laid  aside  after  its 
seventh  representation,  but  it  was  applauded  ;  and  I  had  the 
conviction  that  the  talent  which  the  world  allowed  me  as  a 
story-poet  might  be  able  to  bring  forth  some  flowers  in  that 
direction.  I  reproduced  Raimund  then  in  “  More  than  Pearls 
and  Gold,”  and  this  piece,  I  am  bold  to  say,  brought  the 
Casino  Theatre  great  credit ;  all  classes  from  the  highest  to 
the  lowest  came  to  see  it.  The  Casino  has  seats  for  twenty- 
five  hundred  spectators,  and  in  a  series  of  representations, 
one  immediately  after  the  other,  all  the  tickets  were  sold.  It 
brought  me  great  praise  and  good  satisfaction.  One  hundred 
rix-dollars  was  the  stipulated  honorarium  ;  there  was  no. theatre 
in  this  country  at  that  time,  except  the  Royal  Theatre,  which 
paid  any  author  for  his  works  ;  that  wras  theiefore  already 
something,  and  a  further  addition  of  one  hundred  dollars  was 
sent  me,  as  the  piece  steadily  “  filled  the  house,”  as  they  called 
it ;  after  thaLseveral  other  young  authors  followed  rny  exam¬ 
ple.  Hostrup,  Overskou,  Erik  Bogh,  Recke,  and  Chievitz, 
produced  works  of  merit ;  the  actors  improved  year  by 
year  ;  the  demands  of  the  public  grew'  always  higher  and  wrere 
constantly  surpassed,  for  there  were  always  some  who  of  course 


372 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LISE. 


overlooked  the  care  and  endeavor  shown  by  the  actors.  “  Only 
Casino.”  is  said  ;  but  when  that  is  said  by  clever  men,  although 
they  never  go  near  it,  —  as,  for  instance,  when  the  author 
of  “A  Hundred  Years”  in  his  poem  speaks  of  the  play  in 
Casino  with  scorn,  —  then  it  is  unjust. 

I  had  written  a  new  piece  for  the  theatre,  the  wondei  com¬ 
edy,  “Ole  Lukoie,”  the  northern  dream-god,  to  whom  I  had 
already  before  in  one  of  my  stories  essayed  to  give  a  body,  — 
to  give  him  form  and  character ;  I  wished  to  bring  him  on  the 
stage,  made  alive  to  the  eye,  and  let  him  express  the  truth, 
that  health,  good  humor,  and  peace  of  soul  are  worth  more  than 
money.  I  mused  on  my  poem  and  wrote  it  down.  Director 
Lange  showed  the  greatest  care,  nay,  love,  in  representing  the 
piece  as  respectably  as  possible  on  the  little,  narrow,  confined 
stage  in  Casino,  —  a  piece  that  required  a  large  stage.  1  was 
pleased  to  deal  with  the  actors,  who  were  interested  in  the 
poem  ;  they  respected  the  author,  they  were  not  the  all-impor¬ 
tant,  chief  figures  in  the  poem,  such  as  I  have  met  with  at  the 
legitimate  theatre.  “  Ole  Lukoie  ”  was  brought  on  the  stage 
at  Casino,  and  the  house  was  crowded. 

The  evening  of  the  representation  arrived,  and  I  observed 
also  in  a  few  hours  how  that  waving  sea,  the  public,  may  crit¬ 
icise  and  judge  what  it  has  taken  weeks  to  produce  ;  but  the 
same  evening  brought  me  both  storm  and  calm.  My  poem 
was  not  understood  ;  at  the  first  act  they  laughed  and  became 
noisy  ;  at  the  end  of  the  second  everything  was  ridiculed,  sev¬ 
eral  of  the  spectators  went  away  at  the  beginning  of  the  third 
act,  and  said  up  at  the  club-house  :  “  The  whole  thing  is  non¬ 
sense  !  They  are  now  in  China,  and  God  knows  where  h>s 
fancy  will  carry  them  next  !  ” 

Tut  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  act  there  was  a  moment's 
calm  ;  before  people  all  talked  loudly,  now  they  listened  ;  there 
was  more  and  more  tranquillity,  and  as  soon  as  the  idea  of  the 
piece  seized  them,  a  triumphant  applause  stormed  through 
the  house.  When  the  curtain  dropped  all  were  delighted, 
they  applauded  and  expressed  their  pleasure.  I  had  neve) 
before  felt  truly  grieved  at  the  misunderstanding,  the  me  eking 
and  jest  with  which  I  was  wont  to  be  greeted,  but  now  for 
the  fi’-st  time  I  had  a  strong  consciousness  of  the  injustice 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  L  HE. 


373 


which  I  suffered.  I  felt  angry  as  I  faced  that  mocking  crowd. 
I  was  grieved,  and  the  applause,  which  now  rushed  toward 
me  was  empty,  and  had  no  meaning  for  me.  When  I  went 
away  several  people  came  up  to  me  and  expressed  their 
thanks,  but  I  could  not  accept  them :  “  They  have  scoffed 
and  mocked  —  that  I  must  first  try  to  forget !  ” 

The  piece  was  played  many  evenings  to  great  assemblies 
and  received  great  attention.  From  the  people  themselves, — 
the  common  people,  who  are  called  the  poorer  classes,  —  I  re¬ 
ceived  thanks  that  no  newspaper  critique,  no  fine  discrimina¬ 
tion  in  different  circles  of  society  could  equal.  A  poor  trades¬ 
man  stood  one  evening,  at  the  end  of  the  piece,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  and  going  out  of  the  door  by  me  he  seized  my  hand 
and  said  :  “  I  thank  you,  poet  Andersen  :  it  was  a  blessed 
comedy !  ”  Those  words  were  more  to  me  than  the  most 
brilliant  critique.  I  must  here  mention  one  incident  more :  in 
a  family  of  the  official  class,  a  house  where  I  often  visited,  the 
lady  of  the  house  told  me  that  she  had  been  very  much  aston¬ 
ished  in  the  morning  to  see  the  groom  with  an  unusually  de¬ 
lightful  face  when  she  spoke  to  him.  “  Has  anything  extraor¬ 
dinary  happened  to-day  to  Hans,  since  he  is  so  unusually 
happy  ?  ”  she  asked  one  of  the  girls  and  from  her  she  learned 
that  Hans  had  received  one  of  the  tickets  yesterday  which  was 
not  in  use.  Hans  was  what  is  called  a  real  country  bumpkin, 
who  went  drowsing  about.  “  He  is  entirely  changed,”  said  the 
girl.  “  When  he  came  home  last  night  from  the  comedy,  ‘  Ole 
Lukoie,’  he  was  highly  pleased  with  all  that  he  had  heard  and 
seen.  ‘I  have  always  supposed,’  said  he,  ‘that  the  rich  and 
people  of  rank  ought  to  be  very  happy,  but  now  I  see  that  we 
poor  ones  are  quite  as  well  off ;  that  I  have  learned  there  at 
tne  theatre  ;  it  was  like  a  sermon,  only  there  was  something 
to  be  seen,  and  something  very  splendid  too  !  ’  ”  No  judg¬ 
ment  his  pleased  and  flattered  me  more  than  that  of  the  poor, 
i  .neducated  fellow  ! 

During  the  summer,  which  I  spent  at  Glorup  and  at  the 
\  eautiful  Corselitze  on  Falster,  I  finished  “  In  Sweden.”  It 
was  the  last  of  my  writings  which  H.  C.  Orsted  heard  read, 
and  it  gave  him  great  pleasure  ;  the  two  sections,  “  Faith  and 
Science,”  and  “  Poetry’s  California,”  both  called  forth  by  his 


374 


THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE. 


ingenious  and  suggestive  conversation,  and  by  the  conception 
of  his  “Spirit  in  Nature/’  became  the  subjects  of  many  a  talk 
between  us.  “  They  have  so  often  accused  you  of  want  of 
study,”  he  said  one  day  in  his  mild,  joking  manner,  “  that 
perhaps  you  are  going  to  be  the  very  poet,  who  will  do  the 
most  for  science  !  ” 

During  my  summer  stay  at  Glorup  he  sent  me  the  second 
part  of  “  Spirit  in  Nature,”  and  wrote  of  the  book  :  “I  dare 
not  hope  that  it  will  make  the  same  favorable  impression  • 
upon  you,  as  I  had  the  pleasure  to  learn  that  the  first  part 
did,  because  this  new  volume  is  intended  principally  to  ex¬ 
plain  more  clearly  the  former  ;  yet  it  will  not  be  wholly  want¬ 
ing  in  novelty,  and  I  dare  believe  that  the  manner  of  thinking 
is  the  same  in  both  of  them  !  ”  The  book  interested  me 
much,  and  I  expressed  my‘ pleasure  in  a  long  letter,  of  which 
I  give  the  following  extracts  :  — 

.  .  .  .  “  Your  opinion  is  that  this  portion  would  not 

make  the  same  impression  on  me  as  the  first  part  did  ;  I 
cannot  distinguish  one  from  the  other  ;  they  are  like  one  and 
the  same  rich  stream  ;  and  what  above  all  makes  me  glad  is 
that  I  here  seem  to  see  only  my  own  thoughts.  My  belief, 
my  conviction  lies  here  in  plain  words  before  me.  I  have 
not  only  read  for  myself,  but  I  have  also  read  aloud  to  a  few 
others,  ‘  The  Relations  of  Physical  Sciences  to  various  Impor¬ 
tant  Subjects  of  Religion.’  That  chapter  is  especially  suited  for 
reading  aloud.  I  could  wish  that  I  might  read  it  to  all  man¬ 
kind.  I  value  the  blind  belief  of  the  pious  multitude  of  people, 
but  I  consider  it  to  be  far  more  blessed  when  they  also  know 
what  they  believe.  Our  Lord  may  well  permit  us  to  look  at 
Him  through  that  intellect  with  which  He  has  gifted  ;is ; 

I  will  not  go  to  God  blindfold  ;  I  will  have  my  eyes  open  ;  I 
will  see  and  know,  and  if  I  should  not  reach  any  other  end 
than  he  who  only  believes,  my  thoughts  have  in  any  event 
grown  richer.  Your  book  pleases  me  very  much  ;  for  my  own 
part  I  am  also  glad  that  the  book  is  very  easy  to  understand, 
so  that  it  sometimes  seems  to  me  as  if  it  were  the  result  of 
my  own  reflection,  —  as  if  I  might  say  to  myself  on  reading  it, 

1  Yes,  I  should  have  said  exactly  the  same  thing  !  ’  Its  truth 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


375 

has  passed  over  into  me  and  is  become  a  part  of  myself.  I 
have,  however,  thus  far  read  only  half  of  the  book  ;  the  war 
news  drew  me  away  from  it  \  and  since,  my  thoughts  have  been 
fixed  on  events  at  the  seat  of  war  ;  yet  I  could  not  entirely  de¬ 
fer  writing  you  and  giving  you  my  sincere  thanks.  .  .  .  . 

Eight  long  days  I  have  not  been  able  to  do  anything  —  I  am  so 
overwhelmed.  I  forget  the  victory  of  our  brave  soldiers  when 
I  think  of  all  those  young  men  who  have  sacrificed  their  lives  ; 
I  knew  several  of  them.  Colonel  Lassoe,  you  know,  was  a 
friend  of  mine  ;  I  have  known  him  since  he  was  a  cadet,  and 
always  thought  that  he  would  become  a  great  man  ;  he  had 
a  very  clear  judgment,  a  firm  will,  and  was  in  possession  of 
knowledge  and  high  education.  He  was  so  dear  to  me 
How  often  has  he,  though  younger  than  I,  overpowered  me 
with  bold  and  hardy  thoughts  ;  he  rallied  me  jokingly,  when 
he  perceived  sickly  sprigs  in  my  fancy.  On  the  way  from  his 
mother’s  to  the  city,  we  had  often  talked  of  the  present,  of  the 
world,  and  of  the  future  —  now  he  is  gone  away  !  His  poor  old 
mother  must  certainly  be  deeply  afflicted  ;  I  don't  know  how 
she  can  bear  her  sorrow.  He  fell  on  the  same  day  as  Schlep- 
pegrell  and  Trepka,  in  a  little  town  near  Idsted.  It  is  said 
that  those  of  our  soldiers  who  first  entered  the  town  were 
treated  to  eating  and  drinking  by  the  inhabitants  ;  those  who 
followed  after  felt  safe,  and  arriving  in  the  midst  of  the  town, 
the  insurgents  and  inhabitants,  men  and  women,  rushed  out 
from  doors  and  gates  and  commenced  a  heavy  fusilade. 
Our  soldiers’  steadfastness  was  admirable  ;  they  advanced 
through  a  deep  moor  against  the  enemies’  fire,  jumped  from 
knob  to  knob,  and  notwithstanding  they  fell  before  the  grape* 
shot  like  flies,  their  comrades  followed  and  threw  the  enemy 
from  his  secure  position.  Would  that  that  battle  were  the 
last,  but  we  know  not  what  still  may  be  in  store,  and  how 
many  dear  lives  may  yet  be  thrown  away.  O  God  !  may  truth 
become  truth,  may  peace  again  throw  its  light  over  the  lands ! 
Sorrow  now  enters  the  houses  of  most :  we  have  bitter,  gloomy 
days.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  go  and  see  that  full,  stirring  life, 
but  I  will  not,  for  I  know  that  I  should  be  too  much  affected 
by  the  sight  of  all  the  misery  I  should  encounter  there.  If  I 
could  only  do  someth’ ig.  if  I  could  only  comfort  and  quicken 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


376 

some  of  the  sufferers  —  but  I  cannot !....!  bid  you 
a  sincere  farewell !  Yours  affectionately, 

“  H.  C.  Aneersen.” 

When  the  tidings  of  the  battle  of  Idsted  arrived,  I  could 
not  partake  in  the  common  joy  of  the  victory  ;  I  was  too  much 
cast  down  by  Lassoe’s  death.  In  the  night  I  wrote  to  his 
mother ;  I  did  not  know  what  strength  God  was  giving  her  to 
endure  such  a  heavy  loss. 

After  the  struggle  and  the  victory,  peace  shone  over  the 
land.  The  return  of  the  soldiers  made  festival  days,  which 
brightened  my  life  and  will  always  remain  as  a  recollection 
of  beauty.  I  wrote  a  song  for  the  Swedish  and  Norwegian 
volunteers,  with  which  they  received  the  Danes  at  the 
“Iron  Gate”  at  Frederiksborg  Avenue.  Over  the  western 
city  gate  was  displayed  as  a  greeting  the  inscription : 
“  The  brave  country-soldier  has  kept  his  promise  !  ”  All 
the  corporations  met  with  their  flags  and  emblems,  a  thing 
which  before  we  were  used  to  see  only  in  the  theatre  in  the 
drama  “Hans  Sachs;”  many  a  poor  man’s  mind  was  elated 
at  seeing  what  significance  his  class  had  in  the  city,  each  hav¬ 
ing  its  own  banner.  The  music  sounded  ;  “  the  golden  apples  ” 
in  the  fountain  on  “the  old  market-place”  played,  which 
usually  took  place  only  once  a  year  on  the  King’s  birthday. 
Danish,  Norwegian,  and  Swedish  flags  waved  from  all  the 
houses ;  many  inscriptions  were  ingenious  and  beautiful : 
“Victory  —  peace  —  reconciliation,”  was  read  in  one  place. 
All  had  a  festival  look,  and  I  felt  “  Danish  in  mind.”  At  the 
arrival  of  the  first  soldiers,  tears  rushed  down  my  cheeks. 
The  riding-school  was  transformed  into  a  triumphal  hall  with 
saving  flags  and  garlands.  The  officers’  table  was  placed 
under  three  palm-trees  covered  with  golden  fruits  ;  the  com¬ 
mon  soldiers  were  seated  at  long  tables  ;  students  and  other 
young  men  acted  as  stewards  ;  music,  songs,  and  speeches  fol¬ 
lowed  gayly  ;  bouquets  and  wreaths  rained  down.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  stay  here  and  to  talk  with  the  plain,  brave  fellows, 
who  did  not  know  they  were  heroes. 

I  asked  one,  who  was  a  Sleswicker  from  Angel n,  if  they 
had  suffered  a  good  deal  in  the  caserns.  He  answered  *  “  We 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


377 


had  a  jolly  time  of  it ;  everything  was  so  fine  that  we  could 
not  sleep  the  first  night ;  we  lay  upon  mattresses  covered  with 
blankets.  For  three  months  we  lived  in  that  style,  and  the 
woist  thing  about  the  barracks  was  the  bad  smoke  from  we! 
wood.  What  fine  times  we  are  having  here,  and  what  gallant 
folks  the  Copenhageners  are.”  He  praised  Flensborg  ns  a 
true  Danish  town.  “  In  the  warm  days  they  drove  from  ther^ 
down  to  Sleswick  and  brought  us  wine  and  water !  That  w^s 
a  good  thing  !  ”  There  was  a  modesty  shown  by  the  soldiers, 
especially  the  foot-soldiers  ;  they  would  point  out  the  most 
valiant  among  their  comrades,  and  would  give  the  wreaths 
which  were  thrown  into  the  crowd  to  those  they  thought  most 
worthy.  In  the  riding-school  sixteen  hundred  men  were  en¬ 
tertained,  infantry  and  hussars,  and  many  speeches  made. 
Mr.  Lange,  the  director  of  the  Casino,  offered  them  a  great 
number  of  tickets  for  the  evening  representations,  so  that  a 
great  part  of  the  soldiers  could  go  there  without  expense,  and 
I  was  extremely  glad  that  I  could  be  of  a  little  service  to  them 
there,  by  procuring  them  seats,  speaking  with  them,  and  giving 
them  information.  I  heard  and  saw  many  peculiarities  on  the 
occasion.  Most  of  them  had  never  seen  a  comedy,  and  had  no 
idea  at  all  what  it  was.  The  vestibule  and  the  lobbies  were 
adorned  with  green  leaves  and  flags.  Between  the  acts  I  met 
two  soldiers  on  the  lobby.  “  Well,  did  you  see  anything?  ”  I 
asked.  “  O  yes,  everything,  and  it  was  splendid  !  ” —  “  But  the 
comedy — have  you  seen  that?”  —  “Is  that  something  else 
to  be  seen  too  ?”  said  both  of  them.  They  had  remained  on 
the  lobby  and  looked  at  the  gas-lights  and  flags,  and  seen 
their  comrades  and  people  go  up  and  down  the  stairways. 

During  these  days  of  rejoicing  still  another  festival  was 
celebrated  in  private  life  —  it  may  be  called  a  family  feast. 
The  Privy-Counsellor  Collin  had  two  years  previously  retired 
from  the  administration  of  his  office  ;  his  jubilee  occurred  the 
eighteenth  of  February  1851  ;  that  was  celebrated  in  the  -quiet 
of  his  family  circle. 

At  the  very  time  when  our  soldiers  were  returning  home, 
while  songs  and  words  of  joy  were  everywhere  heard,  there 
*ame  heavy  days  of  grief:  Mrs.  Emma  Hartmann  and  H.  C. 
Orsted  died  both  in  the  same  week.  There  was  in  that  richly 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


378 

gifted  woman  a  spirit  of  humor  and  liveliness,  which  were 
manifested  wholly  free  from  affectation.  She  was  one  of  those 
beings  who  had  drawn  me  into  the  circle  of  her  genius, 
humor,  and  heart,  and  such  always  acted  upon  me  as  the  sun¬ 
light  acts  upon  the  plant !  It  is  impossible  to  describe  that 
fountain  of  joy  and  sport,  the  tenderness  which  poured  out 
from  her.  There  was  truth  indeed  in  what  the  minister,  the 
poet  Boye,  said  at  her  coffin  :  “  Her  heart  was  a  temple  of 
God  ;  she  filled  it  entirely  with  love,  of  which  she  received 
abundantly  and  gave  plentifully  not  alone  to  her  own  but  to 
many  without,  to  the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the  sorrowful  —  as 
far  as  it  could  reach !  ”  —  and  always  with  a  kind  word,  with 
some  pleasantry,  she  gave  to  all  the  best  she  had.  The 
testimony  at  her  grave  is  true,  that  “  Happy’  thoughtJ  and 
merry  feelings  took  their  abode  in  her,  and  she  let  them 
freely  flutter  out,  like  winged  birds,  with  song  and  merriment, 
making  a  friendly  spring  day  at  home  for  those  who  sur¬ 
rounded  her !  ”  They  warbled  as  they  liked,  and  all  went  their 
way.  It  seemed  as  if  words  were'  ennobled  when  she  used 
them  ;  she  could  say  what  she  chose  just  as  a  child  can,  be¬ 
cause  one  felt  that  it  was  served  in  a  clean  vessel.  Many  a 
jest,  many  a  witty  sally  came  from  her  lips,  but  she  thought  it 
excessively  comical  that  people  should  put  down  on  paper, 
nay,  give  from  the  stage  such  talk  as,  she  said,  she  could  give 
every  day ;  she  could  not  understand  how  they  dared  offer  a 
serious  public  such  things  as  were  said  by  the  King  of  Spirits 
in  “  More  than  Pearls  and  Gold,”  and  Grethes  replies  about 
the  stork,  and  her  jest  about  standing  in  “  stork  thoughts.” 
She  went,  to  be  sure,  to  the  theatre  to  see  this  piece,  as  also 
“Ole  Lukoie,”  but  for  a  peculiar  reason.  One  day  it  snowed 
very  hard  when  her  two  eldest  boys  came  home  from  school, 
but  the  third  of  them,  a  little  one,  was  lost  on  the  way  home, 
far  out  at  Christianshavn  and  as  she  sat  in  anxiety  and  fear ; 
I  happened  to  come  in,  and  promised  at  once  to  go  and  seek 
the  lost  child.  I  was  not  well  ;  she  knew  it,  and  was  sorry  that 
I  should  run  out  to  Christianshavn  ;  but  how  could  I  do  other 
than  help  her?  It  touched  her,  and  she  told  me  that  when  I 
went  away,  she  walked  up  and  down  the  floor  in  anxiety  but 
also  in  gratitude,  and  exclaimed  :  “  He  is  really  kind  !  and  I 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


379 


will  go  and  see  his  ‘  More  than  Pearls  and  Gold  !  ’  —  if  he 
brings  my  dear  boy  I  will  also  see  ‘  Ole  Lukoie.’  ”  —  “  Yes,  I 
have  made  that  promise  !  ”  said  she,  when  I  came  back  ;  “  I 
will  go  and  see  it,  though  it  is  horrible  !  ”  —  and  she  did  see  it  ,* 
she  laughed  and  was  more  amusing  than  both  the  pieces  to¬ 
gether.  She  was  very  musical,  and  several  pieces  of  music  of 
hers,  though  without  her  name,  have  been  published.  With 
her  whole  soul  she  conceived  and  understood  Hartmann,  and 
when  anticipating  the  acknowledgment  and  importance  he 
was  to  get  abroad,  she  would  become  profoundly  serious  and 
a  brightness  would  flash  out  from  her  thoughts,  —  she,  who 
always  was  seen  in  laughter  and  full  of  fun.  One  of  our  last 
conversations  was  about  Orsted’s  “  Spirit  in  Nature,”  and  es¬ 
pecially  the  part  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  “  It  is  so 
dizzily  grand,  —  it  is  almost  too  much  for  us  human  beings  !  ” 
she  exclaimed.  “  But  I  will  believe,  I  must  believe  it !  ”  and 
her  eyes  shone.  In  the  same  moment  a  joke  passed  over  her 
lips.  Humor  abides  with  us,  poor  mortals,  else  we  might 
think  ourselves  already  quite  like  our  Lord. 

It  was  a  sorrowful  morning !  Hartmann  flung  his  arms 
around  my  neck,  and  said  with  tears :  “  She  is  dead !  ” 
“  Where  in  the  days  of  life  the  mother  sat  among  flowers  , 
where,  like  the  blessed  fairy  of  the  house,  she  nodded  kindly 
to  husband,  children,  and  friends  ;  where,  like  the  sunbeam  of 
the  house,  she  spread  joy  around  her,  and  was  the  binding 
cord  and  heart  of  the  whole,  there  now  sat  Sorrow.” 

In  the  same  hour  that  the  mother  died,  the  youngest  of  the 
children,  the  little  girl,  Maria,  grew  suddenly  sick.  In  one  of 
my  stories,  “  The  Old  House,”  I  have  preserved  some  traits 
of  her  character  ;  it  was  this  little  girl,  a  two-year  old  child, 
who  always,  when  she  heard  music  and  singing,  must  dance 
to  it ;  and  entering  one  Sunday  the  room  where  the  elder 
sisters  were  singing  psalms,  she  began  to  dance,  but  her  mu¬ 
sical  sense  would  not  allow  her  to  be  out  of  measure  and  tune, 
and  these  were  so  long  and  slow  that  she  was  kept  standing 
first  upon  one  foot  and  then  upon  the  other,  but  she  danced 
involuntarily  in  complete  psalm-measure  In  the  mother’s 
nour  of  death  the  little  head  drooped ;  it  was  as  if  the  mother 
bad  prayed  our  Lord  :  “  Give  me  one  of  the  children,  the 


TILE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


380 

smallest  one,  who  cannot  be  without  me  !  ”  and  God  listened 
to  her  prayer.  The  same  evening  the  mother’s  coffin  was 
carried  to  the  church,  the  little  girl  died,  and  a  few  days  after 
was  buried  in  a  grave  close  by  her  mother. 

Upon  the  bier  the  little  child  looked  like  a  grown-up  girl. 
I  have  never  seen  an  image  more  like  an  angel,  and  its  in¬ 
nocence  displayed  itself  for  me  in  those  words,  almost  too 
child  like  for  this  world,  when  I  asked  her  in  joke  one  evening 
when  she  was  a  very  little  girl,  and  was  going  to  her  bath  : 
“  May  I  go  with  you  ?  ”  and  she  replied,  “  No,  sir,  I  am  too 
little,  but  when  I  am  grown  larger,  then  you  may  !  ” 

Death  does  not  efface  the  stamp  of  beauty  in  the  human 
visage  ;  it  often  makes  it  more  sublime  :  it  is  only  dissolution 
of  body  that  is  unbeauteous.  I  never  saw  any  one  in  death  so 
beautiful,  so  noble  as  the  mother  ;  there  was  spread  over  her 
face  a  sublime  repose,  a  sacred  seriousness,  as  if  she  were 
standing  before  her  God.  Round  about  exhaled  a  fragrance 
of  flowers.  Over  her  coffin  sounded  words  of  truth :  “  She 
never  wounded  any  man  by  her  judgment  when  she  judged  the 
world  and  its  doings  ;  she  never  lessened  the  honor  and  praise 
of  the  righteous  ;  she  never  permitted  slander  to  go  unpun¬ 
ished.  She  did  not  anxiously  weigh  her  words  ;  she  did  not 
concern  herself  as  to  whether  her  speaking  might  be  misun- 
understood  by  those  who  had  not  her  frankness.” 

Close  by  the  houses  of  the  street  that  run  by  “  the  Garrison 
cemetery,”  just  within  the  iron  fence,  is  to  be  seen  a  tomb,  al¬ 
ways  more  adorned,  and  better  guarded  and  kept,  than  the 
other  tombs,  —  there  reposes  the  dust  of  Emma  Hartmann 
and  little  Maria. 

•  • 

Four  days  after  that  I  lost  H.  C.  Orsted.  It  was  almost 
too  heavy  for  me  to  bear.  I  lost  in  those  two  so  infinitely 
much :  first,  Emma  Hartmann,  who  by  her  humor,  and  life, 
and  merriment,  relieved  my  mind  when  I  was  depressed  and 

afflicted,  —  she  to  whom  I  could  go  to  find  sunshine  ;  and  now 

•• 

Orsted,  whom  I  had  known  almost  all  the  years  I  had  been 
in  Copenhagen,  and  who  had  become  dear  to  me,  as 'one  of 
the  most  sympathizing  in  my  life’s  weal  and  woe.  During  the 
last  days  I  went  by  turns  from  Hartmann’s  to  Orsted’s,  —  to 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE .  38  1 

the  friend  who,  in  my  spiritual  struggles  and  trials,  had  by 
spiritual  means  kept  me  up,  whom  I  was  here  for  the  last  time 
to  meet  with.  I  did  not,  however,  yet  think  so.  Orsted  was 
so  youthful  in  heart,  he  longed  and  spoke  so  much  of  the 
coming  summer  in  the  pleasant  house  in  the  Frederiksborg’s 
garden.  The  year  before,  late  in  the  autumn,  his  jubilee  was 
celebrated,  and  the  city  granted  him  and  his  family,  while  he 
lived,  the  summer  residence  that  Oehlenschlager  had  lately 
occupied  :  “  When  the  trees  are  budding  and  the  sun  comes  a 
little  forth,  we  will  go  out  there  !  ”  he  said  ;  but  already,  the 
first  days  of  March,  he  fell  sick,  yet  he  kept  up  good  courage. 
Mrs.  Hartmann  died  the  sixth  of  March.  In  deep  affliction  I 
came  to  Orsted  ;  then  I  heard  that  his  disease  was  dangerous  ; 
he  was  suffering  of  inflammation  in  one  of  the  lungs.  “  It  will 
be  his  death  !  ”  I  was  filled  with  this  sorrowful  thought,  though 
he  himself  believed  that  he  was  recovering.  “  Sunday  I  will 
get  up  !  ”  said  he,  and  that  Sunday  he  rose  before  his  God  ! 

When  I  came  there  he  was  struggling  with  death  ;  his  wife 
and  children  were  standing  around  the  bed.  I  sat  down  in  the 
next  room  and  wept  —  I  was  ready  to  sink.  There  was  a 
quietness,  a  Christian’s  quiet  repose,  in  that  home  ! 

The  burial  took  place  the  eighteenth  of  March.  I  was  phys¬ 
ically  ill,  and  it  was  a  real  exertion  and  struggle  for  me  to 
walk  the  short  way  from  the  university  to  the  church  ;  that 
slow  walk  was  drawn  out  into  two  hours.  Dean  Tryde  deliv¬ 
ered  the  sermon,  not  Bishop  Mynster:  “  He  was  not  sum¬ 
moned  to  it,”  they  said,  excusing  him  ;  but  should  it  be  neces¬ 
sary  to  ask  the  friend  to  speak  of  the  friend  ?  I  wanted  :o 

weep,  but  I  could  not ;  it  was  as  if  my  heart  would  burst ! 

•  • 

Mrs.  (Jrsted  and  the  youngest  daughter,  Mathilde,  remained 
in  the  house  of  mourning  ;  they  heard  the  chiming  of  the  bells 
trough  the  many  long  funeral  hours.  The  tones  of  the  bas¬ 
soons  did  the  heart  good.  I  went  to  them  afterward,  and  we 
talked  of  the  peculiar  circumstance  that  Hartmann’s  funeral 
march  was  played  in  the  church,  that  he  composed  for  Thor- 
waidsen’s  funeral  ;  for  the  last  time  we  heard  it  Orsted  was 
with  us,  and  Hartmann  played  it.  At  a  little  festival  which 
Miss  Bremer  made  for  me,  before  my  journey  to  Sweden, 
little  Maria  Hartmann,  who  now  is  dead,  was  then  dressed  air 


382  THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 

an  angel,  and  bestowed  on  me  a  wreath  and  a  silver  cup. 
Hartmann  played  some  pieces  for  us.  Miss  Bremer  rose  and 
asked  for  the  funeral  march  ;  she  was  strangely  moved  by  it, 
and  grasped  my  hand,  saying  that  I  must  not  consider  it  as 
having  a  sad  meaning.  u  It  signifies  the  going  forward  toward 
greater  things !  ”  she  said.  Now  it  was  played  over  Orsted, 
and  over  his  coffin  it  sounded  “  Forward  to  greater  things  I n 


l 


CHAPTER  XV. 


PEACE  was  hovering  over  the  countries,  the  sun  of  spri?$$ 
shone.  I  felt  a  desire  to  travel,  a  longing  to  live  again  ; 
and  therefore  I  flew  out  of  the  city,  out  to  the  light-green  wood, 
to  dear  friends  at  the  bay  of  Praesto,  to  Christinelund  (Chris¬ 
tina's  grove).  The  young  people  out  there  wished  to  have 
the  stork  build  her  nest  upon  their  house,  but  no  stork  came. 
“  Wait  till  I  come  !  ”  I  wrote  ;  then  the  stork  will  also 
come  !  ”  and  just  as  I  had  said  it,  early  in  the  morning  of  the 
same  day  they  expected  me,  two  storks  came  ;  they  were  in 
full  activity  building  their  nest  when  I  drove  into  the  yard. 
This  year  I  saw  the  stork  flying,  and  that  signifies,  says  an 
old  superstition,  that  I  also  was  to  fly  away,  to  go  travelling. 
My  flight  that  summer  was,  however,  but  a  short  one  ;  the 
spires  of  Prague  were  the  most  southerly  points  that  I  saw  ; 
this  year’s  travelling  chapter  has  but  few  pages,  but  the  first  of 
them,  we  see,  has  the  vignette  of  flying  storks,  which  build 
upon  the  roof  in  shelter  of  the  recently  budded  beech  wood. 
At  Christinelund  spring  had  itself  drawn  its  vignette  —  a  bloom¬ 
ing  apple-branch,  growing  at  the  side  of  a  field-ditch.  Spring 

itself  was  then  in  its  most  beautiful  manifestation.  The  little 

■ 

story,  “  There  is  a  Difference,”  had  its  origin  from  that  sight. 
Most  of  my  poems  and  stories  have  their  roots  thus  from 
without.  Every  one  will,  by  contemplating  life  and  nature 
.ound  about  with  a  poetic  eye,  see  and  conceive  such  revela¬ 
tions  of  beauty,  which  may  be  called  accidental  poetry.  I  will 
here  mention  an  example  or  two  :  —  On  the  day  that  King 
Christian  VIII.  died,  we  know  that  a  wild  swan  flew  against 
the  spire  of  Roeskilde  Cathedral  and  bruised  its  breast ; 
Oehlenschlager  has,  in  his  memorial  poem  of  the  King,  pre¬ 
served  the  incident.  When  they  were  fastening  fresh  wreaths 
on  Oehlenschlager’s  tomb,  and  taking  away  the  withered  ones, 
they  perceived  that  in  one  of  these  a  little  singing-bird  had 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


384 

built  its  nest.  When  once  on  a  mild  Christmas  I  was  at 
Bregentved,  a  thin  fall  of  snow  lay  one  morning  upon  the 
broad  stones  at  the  obelisk  in  the  garden  ;  I  wrote  thought¬ 
lessly  with  my  cane  in  the  snow  these  words  :  — 

“  Like  snow  is  immortality  : 

No  trace  to-morrow  doth  one  see.” 

I  went  away  ;  there  came  thaw,  and  after  a  few  days  again 
frosty  weather ;  and  then  coming  to  the  place,  all  the  snow 
was  melted  except  upon  a  little  spot,  and  there  only  remained 
the  word  “  immortality !  ”  I  was  deeply  touched  at  the  ac 
cident,  and  my  fervent  thought  was  :  “  God,  my  God,  I  have 
never  doubted  !  ” 

My  real  summer  sojourn  that  year  was  at  dear  Glorup  with 
my  friend,  the  noble  old  Count  Gebhardt  Moltke-Hvitfeldt. 
It  was  the  last  year  we  met  there  together;  God  called  him 
the  following  spring;  but  that  summer  stay  crowned  all  the 
dear  days  I  had  spent  there.  He  planned  a  festival  for  the 
soldiers  who  had  gone  from  his  estates  to  the  war.  I  have 
before  spoken  of  the  noble  old  gentleman’s  patriotic  mind, 
the  vivid  interest  which  he  took  in  the  agitations  of  the  time, 
and  I  have  also  spoken  of  the  Danish  and  Swedish  troops’ 
stay  at  Glorup.  Now  the  bells  of  victory  had  rung,  and  he 
wished  the  soldiers  to  have  here  a  good  time,  a  right  happy  day 
and  night.  I  was  charged  with  the  arrangement  of  the  fes¬ 
tival,  which  gave  me  much  to  do  ;  but  it  was  successful,  and 
procured  me  great  pleasure.  On  both  sides  of  a  great  basin 
in  the  garden  two  long  lime-tree  alleys  extend  ;  in  one  of 
them  I  pitched  a  tent  forty  yards  in  length,  thirteen  wide,  and 
eight  in  height ;  the  floor  was  laid  with  planed  boards,  giving 
a  room  to  dance.  The  trees  in  the  alley  served  as  columns  ; 
the  trunks  were  wound  about  with  shining  red  damask,  that 
once  had  been  used  as  tapestry,  and  now  was  thrown  away 
in  a  corner  ;  the  capitals  were  formed  of  variegated  shields 
and  great  bouquets.  A  rapeseed  sail  served  as  roof,  and 
under  that,  from  the  centre  of  the  saloon,  a  canopy  made  of 
garlands  and  Dannebrog  shields  stretched  in  each  direction  ; 
twelve  chandeliers  with  Danish  colors  lit  the  room.  From 
the  red  ground  of  the  wall  shone,  surrounded  wi-'.i  flowers,  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


385 

King’s  cipher,  and  upon  variegated  painted  shields  were  the 
names  of  all  the  generals.  Between  the  two  entrances  of  the 
hall  a  large  orchestra  was  placed  under  a  canopy  of  Dannebrog 
flags  ;  raised  boxes  were  arranged  at  the  sides,  and  uppermost 
in  the  hall,  among  blooming  forget-me-nots,  two  vases  with 
flame-fires,  and  mourning-crape,  and  small  black  shields,  bore 
the  names  of  the  first  and  the  last  of  the  fallen  officers  :  Heger- 
mann  Lindencrone  and  Dalgas.  Two  others  bore  the  inscrip¬ 
tion,  “  The  country  soldier ;  ”  higher  up,  among  shields  which 
told  of  the  victories,  shone  a  mighty  shield  with  a  verse  to 
ti  e  country  soldier.  A  wreath  of  blood-beech  leaves  waved 
over  it  with  golden  crown  and  laurel  branches.  The  whole 
had  a  great  and  peculiar  effect  upon  those  for  whom  it  was 
arranged.  “  It  is  worthy  to  be  seen  by  the  King  !  ”  said  a 
peasant.  “  It  has  cost  more  than  a  thousand  dollars  !  ”  said 
another.  “You  may  say  a  million!”  said  his  wife.  “That 
is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  ”  said  an  old  paralytic  man,  who 
was  carried  to  the  festival.  “  Such  splendor,  such  music !  it 
:s  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  ”  For  none  of  my  poetic  works 
did  I  ever  get  so  unanimous  an  acknowledgment  and  praise  as 
for  my  architectural  talent,  a  thing  which  was  very  easy  to  me, 
who  have  seen  so  much  of  the  kind  contrived  by  Bournonville, 
and  later  by  Carstensen. 

The  festival  took  place  on  the  seventh  of  July,  in  beautiful 
weather.  At  one  o’clock  the  soldiers  came  marching  up,  and 
were  received  in  the  castle-yard  with  a  speech  of  welcome  by 
the  minister.  At  the  sound  of  “  The  brave  country  soldier,” 
the  procession  marched  up  tathe  dancing-hall,  where  the  tables 
stood  richly  served  ;  cannon  echoed  from  the  little  island, 
where  flags  waved  ;  the  orchestra  played,  and  joy  and  pleasure 
shone  on  all  faces.  His  Excellency  drank  the  health  of  the 
King,  after  that  I  read  aloud  a  verse  to  the  country  soldier, 
and  then  my  song  was  sung.  Among  the  many  affectionate 
toasts,  a  soldier  gave  one  for  the  man  who  had  built  the  splen¬ 
did  hall,  and  another  of  them  said  innocently  that  I  certainly 
1  ught  to  be  paid  a  good  shilling  for  it.  The  girls  arrived  in 
the  evening.  Each  man  was  allowed  to  invite  one  girl,  and 
the  dance  commenced  in  the  brilliant  dancing-hall  ;  the 
alley  along  the  basin  was  illuminated  ;  a  little  three-masted 

2S 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


386 

vessel  with  variegated  lanterns  was  floating  on  the  water 
Most  of  the  cuttings  for  lamps  and  lanterns  were  made  by 
myself. 

“  Next  year  I  will  again  arrange  such  a  festival,”  said  his 
Excellency.  “  It  is  a  pleasure  to  give  such  happiness  to  so 
many  people,  and  they  are  so  brave,  so  respectable  too  !  ”  But 
alas  !  it  was  the  last  festival  he  gave  :  the  next  spring  he  was 
called  to  his  God.  That  year,  however,  there  was  another 
celebration,  that  of  the  silver  wedding  of  his  children,  and 
to  that  were  invited  only  the  peasants  from  all  his  estates. 
The  soldiers’  festival  was  meantime  the  chief  affair  of  the  sum¬ 
mer  day  here,  and  all  my  exertions  and  interest  had  in  them 
one  reward.  Those  hours  stand  like  a  bright  page  in  the  story 
of  my  life. 

The  period  of  war  lay  between  the  present  and  my  last  stay 
in  Germany.  I  had  not  yet  visited  the  seat  of  war,  because 
my  feelings  revolted  against  going  there  driven  only  by  curi¬ 
osity  while  other  men  were  acting  there.  Now  peace  was 
concluded  ;  we  could  again  meet,  but  my  thoughts  were  full 
of  all  the  bloody  events,  and  my  first  wish  was  to  go  to  those 
places  where  my  countrymen  had  fought  and  suffered.  One 
of  my  young  friends  travelled  with  me  ;  we  met  at  Svendborg, 
and  were  carried  bv  steamer  to  Als,  where  were  still  to  be  seen 
intrenchments  and  huts  of  earth  ;  at  our  sailing  up  the  frith 
every  tile-kiln,  every  projecting  point  of  land,  told  us  a  story 
of  the  war.  Our  visit  at  Flensborg  was  to  see  the  graves  of 
our  fallen  heroes.  The  garden  of  death  rises  high  over  town 
and  sea,  and  there  was  especially  one  grave  here  which  1 
sought  and  found  —  that  of  Frederick  Lassoe  ;  he  lies  between 
Schleppegrell  and  Trepka.  I  plucked  here  one  green  leaf  for 
his  mother,  and  one  for  myself,  thinking  of  his  short,  active 
life  and  of  his  generous  love  for  me.  We  approached  soon 
the  real  fteid  of  battle.  New  houses,  in  place  of  those  which 
were  burnt,  were  now  building  ;  but  round  about  was  seen  the 
bare  earth,  where  the  rain  of  balls  had  ploughed  the  soil. 
My  soul  was  filled  with  seriousness  and  woe.  I  thought  of 
Lassoe  and  his  last  moment;  I  thought  of  the  many  who  had 
expired  here.  It  was  sacred  ground  I  passed  over. 

The  town  of  Sleswick  was  still  in  a  state  of  siege  ;  Ilelge* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


38  7 

sen  was  the  commander  there.  I  had  never  seen  him  before, 
and  it  happened  that  he  was  the  first  whom  I  met.  Entering 
Mrs.  Esselbach’s  hotel,  his  powerful  figure  drew  my  attention ; 
his  features  put  me  also  somewhat  in  mind  of  the  portrait  of 
him  which  I  had  seen  ;  it  ought  to  be  the  hero  cf  Frederikstad. 

I  went  up  to  him  and  asked  him  if  he  was  the  commander :  he 
answered  yes,  and  giving  him  my  name,  he  received  me  im~ 
mediately  very  kindly.  One  of  his  officers  accompanied  me 
to  Dannevirke,  and  gave  me  the  information  I  desired.  Queen 
Thyra’s  mighty  earth-rampart  seemed  again  to  have  risen.  I 
saw  an  entire  barrack-town  still  standing ;  the  houses  of  the 
officers  were  furnished  with  windows  of  glass,  and  in  one  of 
those  houses  was  now  the  soldiers’  guard-room.  I  passed  the 
evening  with  Helgesen.  He  was  friendly,  and  a  plain,  straight¬ 
forward  man  ;  in  his  look  and  manner  he  reminded  me  of 
Thorwaldsen  ;  he  named  the  one  of  my  stories  that  had 
pleased  him  most,  and  it  was,  characteristically  enough,  “  The 
Constant  Tin  Soldier.”  At  the  fortifications  before  Rendsborg 
Danish  soldiers  were  standing.  I  nodded  to  them,  and  the 
honest  fellows  understood  that  Danes  were  sitting  in  the  car¬ 
riage  ;  they  smiled  and  nodded  to  me  again.  But  the  drive 
through  the  town  of  Rendsborg  was  very  unpleasant ;  it  was 
as  if  I  drove  through  a  pit  of  death ;  here  it  was  that  the 
insurrection  had  its  root.  Ugly  memories  came  in  my 
thoughts  ;  the  town  had  always  seemed  to  me  mouldy  and 
oppressive,  and  now  it  was  a  smarting,  unpleasant  feeling  for 
a  Dane  to  come  here.  On  the  railroad  I  was  seated  by  the 
side  of  an  old  gentleman,  who,  taking  me  for  an  Austrian, 
praised  them,  calling  them  my  countrymen,  and  then  spoke  ill 
of  the  Danes.  I  told  him  that  I  was  a  Dane,  and  our  conver¬ 
sation  stopped  ;  I  fancied  I  saw  evil  looks  round  about,  and 
only  when  all  Holstein,  and  Hamburg  too,  were  lying  behind 
me  did  1  breathe  freely. 

On  the  Hanover  railroad  I  heard,  in  the  carriage  next  to 
mine,  a  Danish  song,  from  Danish-girl  voices  ;  a  bouquet  of 

• 

flowers  was  thrown  in  to  me  ;  I  sent  them  back  again  a  bou¬ 
quet,  but  in  words  only.  Denmark  and  all  that  was  Danish 
filled  my  mind,  and  surrounded  me  also  at  times  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river  Elbe.  1  had  never  been  so  Danish  before 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


388 

when  I  travelled  in  the  German  country.  Not  until  I  came 
to  Leipsic  and  Dresden  did  I  again  find  acquaintances  and 
friends  ;  they  were  unchanged,  kind,  and  hearty.  The  hour  of 
our  meeting  was  a  dear  one  ;  it  was  well  for  the  mind  that 
the  dark,  gloomy  interval  had  passed.  Almost  all  acknowl¬ 
edged  with  heartiness  the  Danish  people’s  power  and  unity, 
and  the  strength  that  lay  in  it.  Some  of  them  exclaimed, 
“  The  Danes  are  right !  ”  It  is  true  that  some  were  of  anothei 

.  1 

opinion,  but  they  did  not  express  it.  I  had  no  reason  to  com¬ 
plain  ;  I  saw  and  felt  a  friendly  mind  and  a  sympathy  around 
me  ;  yes,  the  accidental  poetry,  if  I  may  repeat  that  word, 
gave  its  poetry  in  honor  of  the  Dane.  I  must  relate  a  little 
event : 

Seven  years  had  elapsed  since  I  had  seen  the  hospitable 
family  Von  Serre,  whom  I  have  before  mentioned  as  living  in 
beautiful  Maxen,  a  few  miles  from  Dresden.  At  that  time, 
on  the  evening  before  my  departure,  I  found,  on  a  walk  which 
I  took  with  the  lady  of  the  estate,  a  little  larch,  so  small  that 
I  could  carry  it  in  my  pocket ;  it  had  been  thrown  away  by 
the  roadside  ;  I  picked  it  up,  and  found  it  was  broken.  “  Poor 
tree  !  ”  said  I,  “  it  must  not  die  !  ”  and  I  looked  about  upon 
the  rocky  ground  for  a  fissure  with  a  little  earth,  in  which  I 
could  plant  the  tree.  “  They  say  I  am  a  lucky  hand  !  ”  said 
I  ;  “perhaps  it  will  grow.”  At  the  very  edge  of  the  slope  of 
the  rock  I  found  a  little  earth  in  a  stone  crevice  ;  here  I  put 
the  tree  down,  went  away,  and  thought  no  more  of  it.  “Your 
tree  at  Maxen  is  growing  admirably !  ”  the  artist  Dahl  told  me 
some  years  after  at  Copenhagen.  He  had  come  directly  from 
Dresden.  I  heard  of  it  now  at  Maxen  as  “  The  Danish  Poet’s 
Tree,”  for  so  it  was  called,  and  this  name^it  had  carried  in  an 
inscription  for  several  years.  The  tree  took  root,  shot  out 
tranches,  and  grew  tall,  because  it  had  been  cared  for  by  Mrs. 
Von  Serre,  who  had  caused  earth  to  be  laid  about  it ;  after  that 
had  had  a  piece  of  the  rock  blown  away ;  and  lately  a  path 
had  been  laid  out  close  by  it?,  and  before  the  tree  stood  the  in¬ 
scription,  “The  Danish  Poet’s  Tree.”  It  had  not  been  mo¬ 
lested  during  the  war  with  Denmark,  but  now  “  it  is  going  to 
die,”  they  said  ;  “  the  tree  will  come  to  nothing.”  A  mighty 
birch-tree  was  growing  close  by,  its  large  branches  spread 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  389 

themselves  over  the  larch,  and  that  alone  was  enough  to  check 
its  growth  and  make  it  perish.  But  one  day  in  the  midst  of 
the  war  there  was  a  violent  storm  ;  the  lightning  split  the 
birch-tree  and  tore  it  from  the  rock,  and  —  “  The  Danish  Poet’s 
Tree  ”  stood  free  and  untouched.  I  came  to  Maxen,  saw  my 
young  tree,  and  near  by  the  stump  of  the  birch.  A  new  plate 
bore  the  inscription.  It  was  Major  von  Serre’s  birthday,  and 
all  the  best  people  in  Dresden  were  gathered  here  for  the 
celebration.  The  workmen  from  the  marble  quarries  and 
lime-kilns  of  the  estate  came  with  songs  and  flowers.  It  has 
always  been  a  certain  good  fortune  of  mine  on  my  travels  to 
meet  with  something  peculiar  and  interesting,  and  this  was 
also  the  case  on  the  railway  between  Leipsic  and  Dresden. 
In  the  compartment  with  me  sat  an  old  lady  with  a  large  mar¬ 
ket  basket  upon  her  lap ;  at  her  side  was  her  twelve-year  old 
boy,  Henry,  who,  tired  of  travelling  all  night  and  day,  looked 
longingly  after  the  spires  of  Dresden.  Opposite  me  was  a 
young,  lively  lady,  who  spoke  boldly  of  art,  literature,  and 
music,  with  which  she  seemed  to  be  very  conversant ;  she  had 
been  in  England  several  years  :  they  were  all  on  their  way  from 
Breda.  During  the  stopping  of  the  train,  I  went  out  with  two 
other  travellers,  and  we  guessed  who  she  might  be.  I  pre¬ 
sumed  her  at  first  to  be  an  actress  :  another  thought  that  she 
was  governess  in  a  very  fine  English  family.  On  the  way  the 
old  lady  pushed  me  slightly  and  said,  “  That  is  a  remarkable 
person  !  ” —  “  Who  is  she  ?  ”  I  asked  quickly.  “  Demoiselle  ” — 
she  stopped  suddenly,  because  the  young  lady,  who  was  lean¬ 
ing  out  of  the  window,  again  talked  with  us.  My  curiosity 
was  considerably  strained.  “  Antoinette  !  ”  the  brother  cried 
to  her,  “  there  is  Dresden  !  —  Antoinette  !  ”  When  we  stepped 
out  of  the  carriage,  I  whispered  to  the  old  lady,  “  Who  is  that 
young  lady  ?  ”  and  she  whispered  mysteriously  at  parting, 
“  Demoiselle  Bourbon.” — “  And  who  is  Antoinette  Bourbon  ?  ” 
I  asked  at  Dresden,  and  they  told  me  that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  the  well  known  watchmaker  at  Geneva,  who 
laimed  to  be  the  son  of  the  unfortunate  Louis  XVI.  and 
Marie  Antoinette  ;  that  the  children  had  lived  for  some  time 
in  England,  were  staying  now  in  Breda,  but  sometimes  came 
Vicognito  to  Dresden.  An  old  French  lady,  who  felt  certain 


390 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


that  they  were  the  real  Dauphin’s  children,  lived  with  them 
and  for  them.  This  was  told  me,  and  corresponded  with  the 
appearance  of  my  travelling  companions,  and  surely,  Antoi¬ 
nette’s  face  had  a  certain  royal  dignity  ;  she  might  well  be  con¬ 
sidered  the  daughter  of  the  Dauphin,  or  at  least  of  a  man  who 
had  the  features  of  the  Bourbons. 

Weimar  was  deserted.  I  knew  that  all  my  friends  were  scat- 
tered  about.  The  visit  here  and  the  continuation  of  my  travel 
were  therefore  reserved  for  the  following  year. 

I  received  at  home  in  the  autumn,  the  sixth  of  October, 
1851,  the  title  of  Professor.  On  the  arrival  of  spring,  and  as 
soon  as  the  wood  put  forth  its  leaves,  I  set  out  to  tie  fast  the 
travelling-thread  where  I  had  lost  it,  and  that  was  at  my 
favorite  Weimar.  My  friends  greeted  me  cordially;  the  recep¬ 
tion  was  as  kind  as  ever,  from  the  grand  ducal  palace  to  the 
many  acquaintances  and  friends  all  over  the  city.  Beaulieu 
de  Marconnay  had,  in  the  interval  of  our  separation,  become 
court-marshal  and  intendant  of  the  theatre  ;  was  married,  had 
a  happy  home,  where  I,  as  in  former  days,  was  received  as 
a  friend,  —  I  might  almost  say,  as  a  brother.  Some  sweet 
children  were  playing  in  the  room  ;  they  stretched  their  small 
hands  toward  me  ;  and  the  lady  of  the  house  stood  there  her¬ 
self  as  the  good  guardian  spirit  of  the  house :  happiness  and 
blessings  had  here  taken  their  abode. 

The  other  thing  that  during  my  visit  at  Weimar  this  time 
offered  itself  to  me  as  a  new  bouquet  of  memory  was  the  in¬ 
tercourse  I  had  with  Liszt,  who,  as  is  known,  had  here  an 
office  as  chapel-master,  and  had  a  great  influence  on  the  mu 
sical  element  of  the  whole  theatre.  The  problem  he  espe¬ 
cially  set  himself  was  to  bring  out  dramatic  compositions  of 
value,  whjch  perhaps  otherwise  would  hardly  have  been 
introduced  in  the  German  theatres.  In  Weimar  lias  thus 
been  given  Berlioz’s  “  Benvenuto  Cellini,”  which,  as  regards 
the  chief  personage,  has  for  the  Weimarians  a  special  interest 
through  Goethe’s  “Benvenuto.”  Wagner’s  music  especially 
interests  Liszt  very  much,  and  he  is  using  every  exertion 
to  make  it  known,  partly  by  bringing  it  on  the  stage,  and 
partly  by  writing  of  it.  He  has  published  in  French  an  entiie 
book  concerning  the  two  compositions,  “Tannhauser”  ana 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


391 


M  Lohengrin  ;  ”  the  first  one  has,  on  account  of  its  subject,  great 
significance  in  Weimar,  as  it  is  associated  with  the  Thuringian 
traditions  The  scene  takes  place  at  Wartburg.  Wagner  is 
considered  as  the  most  remarkable  composer  of  the  present 
time,  a  position  which  I  cannot  in  my  plain,  natural  feeling 
well  admit ;  it  seems  to  me  as  if  all  his  music  were  composed 
intellectually.  In  “  Tannhauser  ”  I  must  admire  the  exceed¬ 
ingly  well-delivered  recitative,  as  for  instance  where  Tann- 
haziser  returns  from  Rome  and  relates  his  pilgrimage,  — 
that  is  charming !  I  recognize  the  grand  and  picturesque 
elements  in  this  music-poem,  but  I  feel  there  is  lacking  the 
flower  of  music,  —  the  melody.  Wagner  himself  has  written 
the  text  to  his  operas,  and  as  a  poet  in  this  respect  he  occu¬ 
pies  a  high  place  ;  there  are  variations,  there  are  situations  ; 
the  music  itself,  the  first  time  I  heard  it,  sounded  like  a  great 
sea  of  tunes  which  waved  over  me  and  affected  me  in  body 
and  mind.  “  What  do  you  say  about  it  now  ?  ”  he  asked  ;  and 
I  answered,  “  I  am  half  dead  !  ”  “  Lohengrin  ”  seems  to  me 

a  wonderful  tree,  without  flower  or  fruit.  Don’t  misunder¬ 
stand  me,  my  judgment  of  music  besides  is  of  little  conse¬ 
quence  ;  but  I  claim  as  well  in  this  art,  as  also  in  poetry,  the 
three  elements  :  intellect,  fancy,  and  feeling  ;  the  last  one  is 
revealed  in  melodies  !  I  see  in  Wagner  the  thinking  composer 
of  the  present  time,  great  through  intellect  and  will,  a  mighty 
breaker  down  of  rejectable  old-fashioned  things ;  but  I  do  not 
feel  in  him  that  divinity  which  is  granted  to  Mozart  and  Bee¬ 
thoven.  A  great  and  able  party  speaks  as  Liszt  does ;  the 
general  public  agrees  with  them  here  and  there.  I  believe 
that  Wagner  has  such  a  recognition  at  Leipsic,  but  it  was  not 
so  before.  One  evening  in  the  “  Gewandhaus,”  several  years 
ago,  when  I  was  there,  after  the  execution  of  several  pieces 
by  different  composers  that  were  unanimously  applauded, 
the  overture  of  “Tannhauser”  was  given;  it  was  the  first 
time  I  heard  it,  the  first  time  I  heard  the  name  Wagner. 
I  was  struck  by  the  picturesqueness  in  the  whole  music-poem, 
and  I  burst  out  in  applause  ;  but  I  was  almost  the  only  one. 
Thev  looked  at  me  from  every  side,  they  hissed,  but  I  re¬ 
mained  faithful  to  my  impression  of  the  music,  applauded  once 
mere  and  shouted  “  Bravo  1  ”  but  in  my  heart  I  was  overcome 


392 


THE  I TOR  Y  OF  MY  LIFE. 


with  bashful  ness  and  the  blood  rushed  up  in  my  cheeks.  Now, 
on  the  contrary,  all  applauded  Wagner’s  “  Tannhausei.”  I 
told  this  to  Liszt,  and  he  and  his  whole  musical  circle  re- 
warded  me  with  a  “  Bravo  ”  because  I  had  given  way  to  right 
feeling. 

From  Weimar  I  went  to  Nuremberg.  The  electro-magnetic 
thread  kept  along  beside  the  railroad.  My  heart  is  as  Dan¬ 
ish  as  any  one’s  !  It  throbs  stronger  at  my  country’s  honor' 
Thus  I  felt  here  on  the  railroad.  A  father  with  his  son  sat  in 
the  same  compartment  as  I ;  the- father  pointed  at  the  electro¬ 
magnetic  thread.  “  That  is,”  he  said,  “  a  discovery  of  a 
*  Dane,  —  Mr.  Orsted  !  ”  I  was  happy  to  belong  to  the  same 
nation  as  he. 

Nuremberg  lay  before  us.  I  have  in  one  of  my  stories, 
“  Under  the  Willow,”  given  an  impression  of  that  old,  magnifi¬ 
cent  city :  so  also  the  journey  through  Switzerland  and  across 
the  Alps  has  supplied  me  with  the  background  for  the 
picture.  I  had  not  visited  Munich  since  1840,  and  then  it 
stood,  as  I  wrote  in  the  “  Bazaar,”  like  a  rose-bush  that  shoots 
forth  every  year  new  branches  ;  but  each  branch  is  a  street, 
each  leaf  a  palace,  a  church,  or  a  monument.  Now  the  rose¬ 
bush  had  grown  up  to  a  large  tree  all  in  blossom  :  one  flower 
is  called  Basilica,  another  Bavaria,  and  in  that  way  I  again 
expressed  myself,  when  King  Ludvig  asked  me  what  impres¬ 
sion  Munich  made  on  me.  “  Denmark  has  lost  a  great  artist, 
and  I  a  friend  !  ”  said  he,  speaking  of  Thorwaldsen. 

Munich  is  for  me  the  most  interesting  city  of  Germany,  and 
that  is  especially  produced  by  King  Ludvig’s  talent  for  art 
and  his  incessant  activity.  The  theatre  also  is  flourishing; 
it  possesses  one  of  Germany’s  most  clever  theatre  intendant3, 
the  poet  Dr.  Dingelstedt.  He  goes  every  year  to  the  most 
important  German  stages,  and  learns  there  what  talent  is  com¬ 
ing  forward.  He  visits  Paris,  and  knows  the  repertoires  and 
the  wants  of  the  theatres  and  the  public.  The  royal  thea¬ 
tre  at  Munich  will  soon  offer  a  model  repertoire ;  with  us 
such  “mise  en  scene”  is  entirely  unknown:  we  for  instance, 
in  “The  Daughter  of  the  Regiment,”  where  the  scene  is 
m  Tyrol,  have  recourse  to  side-scenes  with  palms  and  cac¬ 
tuses  ;  we  let  Norma  in  one  act  live  in  Socrates’  Grecian 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


393 


loom,  and  in  another  act  in  Robinson  Crusoe’s  palm-hut ;  they 
offer  us  day-scenes  where  the  sun  is  shining  in,  while  in  the 
background  one  finds  an  open  balcony  and  dark-blue  starry 
sky ;  all  without  thought  and  attention,  and  thus  without 
any  purpose.  But  who  cares  about  such  things,  they  say  ;  no 
paper  complains  of  it.  Munich’s  repertoire  has  variety ; 
there  is  pains  taken  to  know  the  most  important  productions 
6f  the  time  in  different  countries  ;  the  theatre  intendant  puts 
himself  into  relations  with  the  best  known  authors  there.  A. 
courteous  letter  which  [  received  from  him  brought  us  into 
correspondence  ;  he  wished  information  about  the  Danish  re¬ 
pertoire  as  to  original  pieces,  and  mentioned  in  the  same  let¬ 
ter  the  present  Bavarian  king’s  knowledge  of  my  writings  and 
his  gracious  interest  in  me.  The  intendant  Dingelstedt  was 
thus  the  first  person  I  visited  at  Munich  ;  he  immediately 
assigned  me  one  of  the  first  boxes  in  the  theatre  ;  it  was  dur¬ 
ing  my  whole  stay  at  the  disposal  of  myself  and  my  travelling 
companion.  He  informed  King  Max  of  my  arrival,  and  the 
next  day  I  was  invited  to  dinner  at  the  hunting  seat  Starn- 
berg,  where  his  majesty  then  sojourned.  The  Privy-Legation 
Counselor  Von  Donniges  came  for  me  ;  we  travelled  rapidly 
by  rail,  and  arrived  before  dinner-time  at  the  little  castle,  beau¬ 
tifully  situated  on  a  lake,  bordered  by  the  Alps.  King  Max 
is  a  young,  very  amiable  man.  I  was  received  in  the  most 
gracious  and  friendly  manner.  He  told  me  that  my  writings, 
especially  “  The  Improvisatore,”  “  The  Bazaar,”  “  The  Little 
Mermaid,”  and  “  The  Garden  of  Paradise,”  had  made  a  deep 
impression  on  him.  He  talked  of  other  Danish  authors ; 
he  knew  Oehlenschlager’s  and  H.  C.  Orsted’s  writings.  P3e 
spoke  with  admiration  of  the  spiritual,  fresh  life  in  art  and 
science  which  stirred  in  my  country  ;  from  Von  Donniges, 
who  had  travelled  in  Norway  and  Seeland,  he  knew  of  the 
beauty  of  the  Sound  and  our  charming  beech  woods  ;  he  knew 
what  treasure  we  own  in  the  Northern  museum  beyond  other 
nations. 

At  the  table  the  King  honored  me  by  drinking  a  glass  to 
Viy  muse,  and  rising  from  table  he  invited  me  on  a  sailing- 
trip.  The  weather  was  dull  but  the  clouds  were  fleeting  ;  a 
large  covered  boat  lay  on  tte  lake;  neatly  dressed  rowers 


394 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


appeared  with  their  oars,  and  soon  we  tvere  gliding  smoothly 
over  the  water.  I  read  aloud  on  board  the  story  “  The 
Ugly  Duckling ;  ”  and  amid  lively  conversation  about  poetry 
and  nature  we  reached  an  island,  where  the  king  had  just 
ordered  to  be  built  a  beautiful  villa.  Near  by  a  large  hill  was 
dug  through  ;  they  thought  it  a  giant  grave,  like  those  we  have 
in  the  North  ;  here  were  found  bones,  and  a  knife  of  flint-stone. 
The  attendants  kept  themselves  at  a  distance  ;  the  King  in* 
vited  me  to  take  a  seat  at  his  side  on  a  bench  near  the  lake  ; 
he  spoke  of  my  poems,  of  all  that  God  had  granted  me,  spoke 
of  the  lot  of  man  in  this  world  and  of  that  strength  we  had 
when  we  kept  faith  in  our  Lord.  Near  where  we  sat  stood  a 
large  blooming  elder-tree,  which  gave  me  occasion  to  mention 
the  Danish  Dryad  as  it  is  manifested  in  the  story  “  The  Elder- 
Mother.”  I  told  him  of  my  latest  poem,  and  of  the  dramatic 
application  of  the  same  person.  Passing  by  the  tree  I  asked 
his  permission  to  pluck  one  of  its  flowers  as  a  memento  of 
these  moments  ;  the  king  himself  broke  one  off  and  gave  it  to 
me.  That  flower  I  still  keep,  among  pleasant  souvenirs,  and 
it  tells  me  of  the  evening  here. 

“  If  the  sun  would  shine,”  said  the  Kins:,  “  you  would  see 
how  beautifully  the  mountains  here  would  look  !  ” 

“  I  have  always  good  luck  !  ”  I  exclaimed.  “  I  hope  it  will 
shine  !  ”  and  at  the  same  moment  the  sun  really  burst  forth, 
the  Alps  shone  in  beautiful  rosy  hue.  On  our  way  home 
again  I  read  on  the  lake  the  stories  of  “  A  Mother,”  “  The 
Flax,”  and  “The  Darning-Needle.”  It  was  a  delightful  even¬ 
ing  ;  the  surface  of  the  water  was  quite  calm,  the  mountains 
became  of  a  deep  blue,  the  snowy  summits  gleamed,  and  the 
whole  was  like  a  fairy  tale. 

I  reached  Munich  at  midnight.  The  “  Allgemeine  Zeitung  ” 
had  an  account  of  this  visit  under  the  title,  “  King  Max  and 
the  Danish  Poet.” 

F^om  Munich  I  went  to  Switzerland,  Lago  di  Como,  and 
Milan,  which  city  was  still  declared  in  a  state  of  siege.  When  I 
was  going  to  leave  the  city  they  could  not  find  my  passport 
in  the  police-office,  and  called  for  me  to  come  up  there  :  such 
an  event  was  sufficient  to  disturb  all  my  travelling-pleasure. 
An  open  letter  from  the  Austrian  Minister  at  Copenhagen. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


395 


who  recommended  me  to  the  civil  and  military  authorities,  be¬ 
came  now  of  use  to  me.  They  were  very  polite,  but  my  pass¬ 
port  was  not  to  be  found  ;  but  when  they  brought  out  all  they 
had  received,  I  discovered  mine  ;  it  had  been  put  away 
according  to  its  number,  but  the  ge?isd'arvie  had  written  it 
down  wrong,  and  the  number  did  not  correspond  to  that  he 
had  put  upon  my  receipt,  but  it  was  soon  all  right ;  only  it 
was  my  customary  fortune  to  have  more  trouble  with  my  pass¬ 
port  than  any  one  else  when  I  always  in  travelling  keep  es¬ 
pecial  watch  over  it. 

I  returned  by  St.  Gothard  and  the  Lake  of  Lucerne,  in 
whose  charming  environs  I  spent  a  few  days.  At  Schaffhau- 
sen  I  bid  farewell  to  Switzerland,  and  travelled  through  the 
scene  of  Auerbach’s  “  Dorfgeschichten  ”  (village  tales),  the 
romantic  “  Schwarzwald.”  Black  charcoal-pits  sent  out  their 
bluish  smoke,  handsome  men  passed  by,  the  mountain-way, 
“die  Holle”  (the  hill),  was  true  Alpine-scenery. 

I  was  witness  to  a  touching  scene  at  a  railway-station  be¬ 
tween  Freiburg  and  Heidelberg.  A  crowd  of  emigrants  to 
America,  old  and  young,  stepped  into  the  cars,  their  relations 
and  friends  took  leave  of  them,  with  great  crying  and  lamen¬ 
tation.  I  saw  an  old  woman  clinging  fast  to  one  of  the  cars, 
they  were  obliged  to  tear  her  away  ;  the  train  started,  she 
threw  herself  down  to  the  ground.  We  went  away  from  those 
lamentations  and  shouts  of  hurra ;  there  was  change  for 
those  going  away,  but  for  those  who  remained  there  was  only 
want  and  sorrow,  and  everything  reminded  of  those  who  had 
gone.  I  visited  Heidelberg’s  castle-ruin  on  a  fresh,  warm 
summer  day.  Cherry-trees  and  elders  were  growing  into  the 
rooms  and  halls  of  the  ruin  ;  birds  were  flying  chirping  about. 
All  at  once  a  voice  called  my  name  ;  it  was  Kestner,  the 
Hanoverian  Ambassador  at  Rome,  the  son  of  Werther’s  Lotte. 
He  was  visiting  Germany ;  that  was  our  last  meeting ;  he 
died  the  year  after. 

The  last  of  Jtdy  I  came  back  again  to  Copenhagen.  Her 
majesty  the  widow-queen,  Caroline  Amelia,  honored  me  with 
a  gracious  invitation  to  Sorgenfri  ( Sans  Souci).  I  spent  several 
days  here,  occupying  the  rooms  of  the  deceased  Privy-Coun¬ 
selor  Adler.  Many  recollections  of  my  life  from  boyhood, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


396 

from  those  bright  and  better  days,  went  through  my  soul, 
which  turned  thankfully  toward  the  loving  God.  I  became 
better  acquainted  with  the  country  round  about,  which  I  had 
but  slightly  seen  before.  I  learned  to  appreciate  more  the 
pious,  tender  mind  of  that  noble  queen  so  tried  by  sorrow. 

I  had  written  the  story-comedy,  “The  Elder-Mother,”  for 
the  Casino.  The  director  and  all  the  actors  thought  a  great 
deal  of  it.  At  the  first  representation  it  was  received  with 
great  applause,  although  some  hissing  was  heard,  but  that 
always  happened  of  late  to  every  new  work.  “  Dagbladet  ”  (a 
daily  paper)  expressed  itself  in  a  friendly  manner  of  it,  but 
“  Berlingske  Tidende  ”  and  “  Flyveposten  ”  (“  Berling’s  Ga¬ 
zette”  and  the  “  Flying  Post”),  which  at  other  times  have  always 
spoken  well  of  me,  “  broke  their  sticks  ”  over  the  work,  and 
could  not  find  any  coherence  in  it.  I  answered  by  an  analysis 
which  discovered  a  little  story,  carefully  wrought.  Meanwhile  it 
found  acceptation  with  most  of  our  poets.  Heiberg  and  Inge- 
mann,  each  of  them,  wrote  me  a  beautiful  letter  ;  the  pastor 
Boye  expressed  himself  very  warmly  and  tenderly  ;  and  I 
beliere  that  “  The  Elder-Mother”  was  the  only  piece  he  ever 
went  to  see  in  the  Casino.  But  the  newspaper  critique  in 
general  had  its  way,  and  cooled  the  interest  of  the  people.  I 
felt  convinced  then  that  the  most  part  of  my  countrymen  have 
not  much  liking  for  the  fantastic  ;  they  do  not  like  to  mount 
too  high,  but  would  ra.ther  stay  on  the  ground  and  feed  them¬ 
selves  in  a  sensible  fashion  upon  common  dramatic  dishes 
made  exactly  according  to  the  receipt-book.  Director  Lange 
continued  meantime  to  give  the  piece,  and  by  degrees  it 
became  understood,  and  was  at  last  received  with  undivided 
applause.  At  one  of  the  representations  it  happened  that  I 
was  seated  at  the  side  of  a  good  looking  old  man  from  the 
country.  Early  in  the  first  scene  of  the  piece,  where  the 
elemental  spirits  come  forth,  he  turned  toward  me,  whom  he 
did  not  know,  and  said  by  way  of  introduction,  “Really, 
that  is  a  piece  of  damned  nonsense  they’ll  have  to  get  out 
of!.”  —  “Yes,  it  is  a  little  difficult,”  I  answered,  “  but  after 
Lhat  it  will  be  more  intelligible  :  there  will  come  a  barber’s 
shop,  where  they  shave  and  do  a  great  deal  of  love-making  !  ” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


397 


“  Ah  indeed !  is  that  so  ?  ”  said  he.  When  the  piece  wag 
finished  he  was  very  well  pleased  with  it,  or  he  had  perhaps 
come  to  know  that  I  was  the  author,  for  now  he  turned  toward 
me  and  assured  me  “  that  it  was  an  exceedingly  good  piece, 
and  very  intelligible  ;  that  it  was  only  in  the  beginning  there 
were  some  difficulties  to  overcome  !  ” 

“  The  Merman  ”  was  brought  out  in  the  Royal  Theatre  in 
February,  1853.  Professor  Glaser  had  made  an  abundance 
of  melodies  to  flow  over  the  poem.  It  was  northern  music 
that  people  heard,  and  that  they  appreciated. 

I  left  Copenhagen  at  Whitsuntide  and  went  out  to  Inge- 
mann’s  in  the  fresh  woody  country,  to  that  home  where  my 
heart,  ever  since  I  was  a  school- boy  at  Slagelse,  drew  me 
regularly  every  summer.  There  all  things  were  unchanged, 
and  there  hearts  remained  the  same.  However  far  the  wild 
swan  may  fly,  it  always  returns  to  that  old  well-known  place 
at  the  wood-lake  ;  and  I  have  the  wild  swan’s  nature. 

Ingemann  is  no  doubt  our  most  popular  poet ;  his  romances, 
which  criticism  thought  immediately  to  gnaw  to  death,  live  yet 
and  are  read  ;  they  have  made  their  way  to  high  and  low  in 
the  northern  realms  ;  they  are  read  by  the  Danish  peasant,  and 
through  them  he  comes  to  love  his  country  and  its  historic 
memories  ;  a  deep  harmony  is  heard  in  every  poem,  even  in 
the  smaller  ones,  and  I  wall  mention  one  of  them,  not  very 
well  known,  “The  Dumb  Girl.”  In  this  it  is  as  if  the  tree 
of  poetry  was  stirred  in  its  top  by  great  movements  that  are 
gone  in  a  second.  They  are  movements  we  have  all  felt,  and 
our  grandchildren  will  hear  them  from  the  old  people’s  mouth. 
Ingemann  has,  besides,  humor  and  the  eternal  youth  of  the 
poet.  It  is  a  happiness  to  know  a  nature  like  his,  and  still 
happier  am  I  to  know  that  I  have  in  him  a  tried  and  steadfast 
friend  ! 

Here  in  the  room  hung  with  pictures,  where  the  lime-trees 
outside  throw  shadows,  and  the  lake  shines  bright  and  blue, 
everything  almost  is  just  as  it  was,  when  I,  a  scholar  from  the 
Slagelse  school,  came  here  on  a  beautiful  summer  day.  And 
the  memory  of  all  that  I  have  seen  and  experienced  since 
then,  indeed  the  whole  story  of  my  life,  seems  to  be  a  garland 
that  is  woven  here. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


398 

Spring,  which  commenced  so  beautifully  that  year,  bade  me 
welcome  with  green  woods  and  the  songs  of  nightingales  ; 
and  soon  all  that  was  only  empty  glory,  —  heavy,  anxious 
days  were  rising.  Cholera  broke  out  in  Copenhagen.  I  was 
no  longer  in  Seeland,  but  I  heard  of  all  the  horrors  and  fatal¬ 
ities  of  that  disease.  The  first  near  and  painful  death-news 
that  came  to  me  was  that  of  the  poet,  the  pastor  Boye.  He 
met  me  in  recent  years  so  kindly  and  appreciatingly  that  he 
had  become  very  dear  to  me. 

One  of  the  most  painful  and  sorrowful  days  of  that  bitter 
period  was  a  single  day  which  should  have  been  devoted  to 
joy  and  merriment.  I  was  at  Glorup,  where  Count  Moltke- 
Hvitfeldt  celebrated  his  silver-wedding.  I  was  the  only  stranger 
invited,  and  my  invitation  had  been  given  a  year  and  day 
before.  All  the  peasants  of  his  estate  were  guests.  I  presume 
that  more  than  sixteen  hundred  were  assembled  here.  Every¬ 
thing  was  rich  and  festive  ;  dancing  and  merriment  went  on, 
music  was  heard  ;  flags  were  floating,  rockets  rose  in  the 
air;  and  in  the  midst  of  all  that  jubilation  I  received  a  letter 
telling  me  that  two  of  my  friends  were  taken  away.  The 
angel  of  death  went  from  house  to  house  ;  now  on  the  last 
evening  he  stopped  at  my  home  of  homes,  —  at  Collin’s 
house.  “  We  have  to-day  all  moved  from  the  place  !  ”  they 
wrote.  “  God  only  knows  what  will  happen  to-morrow  !  ”  It 
was  as  if  I  had  got  the  message  that  all,  to  whom  my  heart 
had  clung  so  fast,  were  to  be  taken  away  from  me.  I  lay 
weeping  in  my  room.  Outside  gay  dancing-music  and  hurras 
sounded,  rockets  shone  ;  it  could  not  be  endured.  New  mourn¬ 
ing-messages  came  daily.  At  Svendborg  too  the  cholera  had 
broken  out ;  my  physician  and  my  friends  all  advised  me  to 
remain  in  the  country;  in  Jutland  more  than  one  hospitable 
house  was  opened  for  me. 

A  great  part  of  the  summer  was  spent  with  Michael  Drew- 
sen  at  Silkeborg.  I  have  given  a  description  of  that  beautiful 
country,  which  reminds  one  in  its  nature  of  the  woody  tracts 
of  the  Black  Forest  and  Scotland’s  grand  solitary  heaths,  and 
I  have  given  some  of  its  memories  and  traditions.  In  the 
midst  of  that  beautiful  country  and  in  a  hospitable  home,  I  went 
about  deeply  afflicted ;  my  heart  was  very  sorrowful.  I  got 


'lHh  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


399 


into  a  nervous  suffering  state,  and  endured  the  torments  of 
uncertainty.  When  the  postilion’s  horn  sounded,  I  ran  away 
immediately  to  get  letters  and  papers ;  I  was  ready  to  sink 
down  during  the  minutes  I  had  to  wait ;  I  was  tormented, 
depressed,  and  sick  at  heart ;  and  as  soon  as  the  disease  at 
Copenhagen  began  to  decrease  so  far  that  they  thought  I 
could  return,  I  hastened  to  the  dear  friends  whom  I  had 
thought  never  more  to  see  again. 

My  publisher,  Chancery-Counselor  Mr.  Reitzel,  died  in  the 
spring,  shortly  before  the  epidemic  broke  out.  We  had,  during 
my  whole  career  as  author,  been  associated  with  true  sympathy, 
and  that  became  fixed  in  friendship ;  his  last  undertaking  was 
the  determination  to  bring  out  a  cheap  edition  of  my  collected 
writings  in  Germany.  Seven  years  before  a  collected  edition 
had  already  been  issued,  followed  by  “Das  Marchen  Meines 
Lebens,”  —  a  sketch  only,  but  one  that  was  received  abroad 
with  hearty  interest  and  sympathy. 

I  have  found  a  like  reception  in  England  and  America, 
where  it  was  published  in  a  translation  by  Mary  Howitt.  The 
happy  fortune  was  now  to  be  mine,  of  publishing,  while  yet 
young,  my  collected  writings  in  Danish  ;  a  matter  of  con¬ 
sequence,  since  I  could  then  get  in  order,  and  also  lop  off  one 
or  another  of  the  too  leafless  branches  ;  my  autobiography 
would  besides  place  the  whole  in  its  right  light.  I  would  not 
give  the  earlier  sketch,  but  an  entire  fresh  and  full  recollection 
of  all  that  I  had  felt  and  enjoyed.  An  account  of  the  many 
men  of  note  whom  I  had  come  across  in  my  path  of  life  ;  the 
impressions  gained  from  my  life  and  my  whole  circumstances  ; 
everything  which  I  thought,  when  noted  down  for  a  coming 
generation,  might  have  the  interest  which  attaches  to  contem¬ 
porary  history,  as  also  a  plain  presentation  of  what  God  had 
permitted  me  to  endure  and  overcome,  that  might  fortify  many 
a  struggling  soul. 

The  work  was  commenced  in  the  fall  of  1853,  in  the  very 
month  of  October  that,  twenty-five  years  before,  saw  me  re¬ 
ceive  my  exci7nen  as  a  student.  Of  late  the  custom  had  pre¬ 
vailed  for  each  section  to  celebrate  its  twenty-fifth  artium  feast, 
if  I  dare  call  it  so.  The  most  interesting  part  of  the  whole 
feas  was  the  first  meeting  in  the  reception-hall,  the  seeing 


400 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


again  of  so  many  whom  we  had  not  met  with  for  so  long  a 
time.  Some  of  them  were  grown  fleshy  and  unfamiliar  look- 
ing  ;  others  old  and  gray-haired  ;  but  a  youthful  mind  at  that 
moment  shone  in  all  eyes.  This  meeting  was  for  me  the  true 
bouquet  of  the  feast ;  at  the  table  speeches  were  made  and 
several  songs  sung  :  one  of  them  I  had  written,  and  it  expresses 
entirely  my  feeling  then,  and  as  it  seemed  that  of  the  others 
also  as  it  appeared. 

Professor  Clausen  made  a  beautiful  and  eloquent  speech, 
drinking  a  glass  for  Paludan-Muller  and  me,  the  two  poets 
who  among  the  students  of  that  year  had  maintained  a  very 
distinguished  place  in  literature. 

A  few  days  after  I  received  the  following  printed  cir¬ 
cular  :  — 

“At  the  meeting  of  the  students  of  1828,  on  the  twenty- 
second  of  October,  wishes  were  expressed  for  a  common  un¬ 
dertaking,  by  which  the  remembrance  of  that  year  which  had 
brought  us  together  might  be  preserved.  After  some  consider¬ 
ation  we  agreed  to  act  upon  the  suggestion  of  that  year’s  f  four 
great  and  twelve  small  poets,’  and  founding  a  legacy  under  the 
name  of  ‘  The  Andersen-Paludan-Miiller  Legacy,’  which  in 
time,  after  annual  contributions  had  increased  it  to  a  consider- 
ble  sum,  should  be  applied  to  the  support  of  a  Danish  poet 
who  had  no  public  employment.” 

How  far  and  to  what  this  will  develop,  lies  in  the  future  ; 
but  the  thought  makes  me  glad,  and  it  is  an  acknowledgment, 
a  homage  shown  by  Danish  students,  by  the  comrades  of  one 
and  the  same  student-year. 

Travelling-life  is  like  a  refreshing  bath  to  my  spirit  and 
body.  I  went  away  a  few  weeks  in  the  following  year,  to 
Vienna,  Trieste,  and  Venice,  to  enjoy  spring  in  its  freshness. 
Only  three  or  four  pictures  of  life  having  any  importance  are 
noted  down  of  this  trip.  The  cherry-trees  were  in  blossom  in 
the  dear  Saxon  home  at  Maxen  :  the  lime-kilns  smoked  ; 
Konigstein,  Lilienstein,  and  all  those  miniature  mountains 
rose  before  me,  and  beckoned  to  me  ;  it  was  as  if  only  a  long 
winter-night  —  but  one  disturbed  by  an  ugly  cholera-dream  — 
lay  between  the  present  and  the  time  I  last  stood  here.  I 
»eemed  to  see  the  same  blooming,  the  same  skies  and  shad* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


401 


ows,  the  same  hospitable  home  and  dear  friends.  Upon  the 
wings  of  steam  I  flew  through  mountains  and  over  valleys.  I 
caught  sight  of  St.  Stephen’s  Tower,  and  in  the  imperial  city, 
after  many  years,  I  was  again  to  meet  with  Jenny  Lind  Gold¬ 
schmidt. 

Her  husband,  whom  I  saw  for  the  first  time  here,  received 
me  very  kindly  ;  a  sturdy  little  son  gazed  at  me  with  his  big 
eyes.  I  heard  her  sing  again  ;  it  was  the  same  soul,  the  same 
fountain  of  music!  Taubert’s  little  song,  “  Ich  musz  nun 
einmal  singen  ich  weisz  nicht  warum  ”  (“  I  must  sing  just  once, 
I  know  not  why  ”),  as  formed  by  her  lips  was  the  song  of  a 
jubilating  warbling-bird  ;  the  nightingale  cannot  whistle  like 
that,  the  thrush  cannot  quiver ;  the  soul  of  a  child,  the  soul 
of  thought  must  be  in  it,  —  it  must  be  sung  by  Jenny  Gold¬ 
schmidt.  Her  power  and  greatness  lie  in  dramatic  delivery 
and  truth,  and  yet  it  is  only  in  the  concert-hall  that  she  per¬ 
mits  us  to  perceive  this  in  the  arias  and  songs  which  she  then 
gives.  She  has  left  the  stage  ;  that  is  a  wrong  done  her  spirit : 
it  is  to  give  up  her  mission,  the  mission  that  God  chose  for 
her. 

In  trouble  and  yet  happy,  wonderfully  full  of  thoughts,  I 
hastened  toward  Illyria,  that  country  which  Shakespeare  has 
chosen  for  many  of  his  immortal  scenes,  —  the  country  where 
Viola  finds  her  happiness.  There  was  a  surprisingly  charming 
view  at  sunset,  as  it  was  displayed  to  me,  when  suddenly  from 
the  high  mountain-brow  I  looked  far  below  upon  the  glowing 
Adriatic;  the  brightness  made  Trieste  look  still  mere  dark; 
the  gas-lamps  were  just  lit,  the  streets  radiated  in  outlines  of 
fire  ;  from  the  carriage  we  looked  down  as  from  a  balloon  in  its 
slow  descent ;  the  shining  sea,  the  gleaming  streets,  seen  in 
those  few  minutes,  remain  in  the  memory  for  years.  From 
Trieste  we  arrived  in  six  hours  by  steamer  at  Venice. 

“  A  sad  wreck  upon  the  water,”  was  the  impression  it  made 
upon  me  the  first  time  I  was  here  in  1833  ;  now  1  came 
here  again,  seasick  from  the  swells  of  the  Adriatic.  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  I  could  not  get  rid  of  it  on  land,  but  that  I  had 
only  gone  from  a  smaller  to  a  larger  ship.  The  only  pleasant 
thing  to  me  was  that  the  silent  city  was  fastened  to  the  living 
continent  by  the  railway  mole.  Venice  seen  in  the  moon 


402 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


light,  is  a  charming  sight,  —  a  wonderful  dream  well  worth 
knowing.  The  silent  gondolas  are  gliding  like  the  boats  of 
Charon  between  the  high  palaces,  which  are  mirrored  in  the 
water.  But  in  the  day-time  it  is  rather  unpleasant  here.  The 
canals  have  dirty  water,  in  which  you  see  floating  stumps  of 
cabbage,  lettuce-leaves,  and  all  such  things  ;  water-rats  come 
out  from  the  crevices  of  the  houses  ;  the  sun  burns  hotly  down 
between  the  walls. 

I  was  glad  to  leave  that  wet  grave,  and  the  railway  steam 
brought  me  speedily  over  the  endless  dike  bordered  by 
muddy,  slimy  banks  and  sand-flats;  on  the  main-land  the  vine 
leaf  hung  in  rich  garlands,  the  black  cypress  pointed  up  to¬ 
ward  the  blue  air.  Verona  was  the  end  of  my  travel  that 
day.  Several  hundred  men  were  sitting  upon  the  steps  of  the 
Amphitheatre  ;  they  did  not  fill  it  up  much  ;  they  were  looking 
at  a  comedy,  performed  in  a  theatre  erected  in  the  midst  of 
the  Amphitheatre,  with  painted  side-scenes,  illuminated  with 
Italian  sunshine.  The  orchestra  played  dance-music  ;  the 
whole  had  the  look  of  a  travesty,  —  an  exhibition  so  piteously 
modern  here  upon  the  remnants  of  the  old  Roman  times. 
During  my  first  visit  in  Venice  I  was  stung  by  a  scorpion  in 
my  hand.  Now  in  the  neighboring  city,  as  Verona  has  become 
by  means  of  the  railway,  I  had  the  same  fate.  I  had  stings 
upon  my  neck  and  cheeks  that  smarted  and  swelled.  I  suf¬ 
fered  extremely,  and  in  that  state  I  saw  the  Lake  of  Garda, 
the  romantic  Riva,  with  its  luxuriant  valley  of  vine  leaves,  but 
pain  and  fever  drove  me  away  from  here.  We  travelled  the 
whole  night  in  the  clearest  moonlight  over  a  wild,  romantic 
road,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  I  have  seen,  —  a  picture  of 
nature  that  Salvator  Rosa’s  fancy  could  not  create  upon  can¬ 
vas.  I  have  the  impression  of  it  .  as  of  a  beautiful  dream  in 
the  midst  of  a  night  of  pains 

A  little  after  midnight  we  reached  Trient,  which  gave  the 
traveller  an  epitome  of  all  the  discomforts.  We  were  obliged 
to  wait  at  the  city  gate  till  a  gendarme  of  Italy  came  loitering 
along  and  asked  for  our  passports  ;  those  were  delivered  in  a 
dark  night  into  strange  hands,  with  the  promise  that  we  should 
receive  them  back  again  early  next  morning,  without  an} 
ticket  or  receipt,  —  nothing  to  rely  upon  in  Austria,  so  strict 


THE  STOR  V  OF  MY  LIFE. 


403 

about  passports.  Then  they  led  us  through  long,  pitch-dark 
streets  to  a  palace-like  but  dead-alive  hotel,  where,  after  long 
knocking  and  crying,  a  drowsy,  half-dressed  cameriere  came 
out  and  conducted  us  up  cold,  broad  stairs,  through  long 
entries  and  dark  corridors,  into  a  large,  high  studded,  antique 
saloon  with  two  made  beds,  each  large  enough  for  a  whole 
family,  children  and  all.  A  drowsy  lamp  stood  upon  a  dusty 
marble  table  ;  the  doors  could  not  be  shut ;  we  looked  through 
them  into  large  rooms,  also  with  beds  big  enough  for  whole 
families.  There  wen;  secret  doors  in  the  wall,  privy  stairs, 
and  red  wine  spilt  on  the  floor,  looking  very  like  blood-stains 
These  were  my  surroundings,  and  it  was  my  last  night  in 
Italy.  My  wounds  burnt,  my  blood  burnt ;  it  was  hopeless 
to  think  of  sleep  and  repose.  At  last  the  morning  dawned,  thp 
bells  sounded  from  the  vetturino’s  horses,  and  we  drove  from 
Trient  and  its  naked  mulberry-trees,  —  the  leaves  had  been 
picked  and  carried  to  market.  By  the  Brenner  Pass  we 
reached  Munich,  passing  through  Innsbruck.  Plere  I  found 
friends,  care,  and  help.  The  physician  of  the  King,  the  amia 
ble  old  Privy-Councilor  Gietl,  cared  for  me  most  kindly ;  and 
after  fourteen  somewhat  painful  days  I  was  able  to  receive 
the  royal  invitation  to  the  castle  of  Hohenschwangau,  where 
King  Max  and  his  consort  spent  the  summer  time.  A  story 
ought  to  be  written  about  the  fairy  of  the  Alpine  rose,  who 
from  his  flower  flutters  through  Hohenschwangau’s  picture- 
crowded  saloons,  where  he  gets  sight  of  something  even  more 
beautiful  than  his  flower.  Between  the  Alps  and  the  River 
Lech  lies  an  open,  fertile  valley  with  a  transparent,  dark-green 
lake  at  either  end,  one  of  them  a  little  higher  than  the  other; 
and  here,  upon  a  marble  crag,  the  castle  of  Hohenschwangau 
rises  majestically.  The  castle  of  Schwanstein  stood  here  be¬ 
fore  ;  Welfs,  Hohenstaufs,  and  Schyrs  were  once  its  lords  ; 
their  deeds  live  still  in  the  pictures  painted  on  the  castle 
walls.  King  Max,  as  crown  prince,  has  restored  the  castle 
ttnd  made  it  to  be  a  state  mansion.  None  of  the  castles  on 
the  Rhine  are  so  beautiful  as  Hohenschwangau,  and  none  has 
puch  surroundings,  —  the  wide  valley  and  the  snow-covered 
Alps.  The  lofty,  arched  gate  rises  magnificently,  where  two 
chivalrous  figures  are  standing  with  the  arms  of  Bavaria  and 


404 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


Schwangau,  —  a  diamond  ^.nd  swan.  In  the  castie  yard,  where 
the  water-jet  is  playing  from  the  wall,  which  is  adorned  with 
the  image  of  a  Madonna,  painted  al fresco ,  three  mighty  lime- 
trees  throw  shadows  ;  and  in  the  garden,  amongst  an  abun¬ 
dance  of  flowers,  where  the  most  beautiful  roses  are  blooming 
on  the  lawn,  we  might  fancy  ourselves  to  have  found  again 
Alhambra’s  lion-well ;  the  ice-cold  spring,  even  at  that  eleva¬ 
tion,  sends  its  fountain  forty  feet  up  into  the  air.  An  armory, 
where  ancient  armor  with  helmets  and  spears  seem  living 
cavaliers,  is  the  first  place  we  enter ;  and  now  opens  a  series 
of  richly  painted  halls,  where  even  the  variegated  window- 
panes  relate  legends  and  histories,  where  every  wall  is  like  a. 
whole  book,  which  tells  us  of  times  and  men  long  gone  by. 

“  Hohenschwangau  is  the  most  beautiful  Alpine  rose  I  saw 
here  among  the  mountains ;  may  it  be  also  always  the  flower 
of  fortune  here.”  These  words  I  wrote  in  German  in  an  al¬ 
bum,  just  as  they  are  in  my  heart,  and  ever  will  remain  there. 

Here  I  spent  some  charming,  happy  days  !  King  Max  re¬ 
ceived  me,  if  I  dare  say  so,  as  a  dear  guest ;  the  noble,  intel¬ 
lectual  King  showed  me  great  sympathy  and  favor  ;  the  Qiieen, 
a  born  princess  of  Bavaria,  of  rare  beauty  and  lovely  woman¬ 
hood,  was  presented  to  me  by  his  majesty  himself.  After  din¬ 
ner,  the  first  day,  I  drove  with  the  King  in  a  little  open  car¬ 
riage  —  a  quite  charming  drive,  certainly  —  a  couple  of  miles, 
as  far  as  into  the  Austrian  Tyrol,  and  this  time  I  was  not 
asked  for  passport  or  stopped  on  the  way.  The  country  had 
a  more  picturesque  look  ;  the  peasants  stood  on  the  road-side 
saluting  their  King  ;  the  carriages  we  met  stopped  while  his 
majesty  passed  by.  This  charming  drive  lasted  a  couple  of 
hours  among  the  sunny  lofty  mountains  ;  and  during  ah  that 
time  the  King  talked  with  me  very  kindly  of  “  The  Story  of  my 
Life,”  which  he  had  recently  read,  and  asked  about  several 
of  those  Danish  persons  mentioned  in  it ;  saying,  besides, 
how  excellently  all  had  turned  out  for  me,  and  what  happy 
feelings  I  ought  to  have  after  having  overcome  so  much,  and 
at  last  been  fairly  acknowledged  as  a  poet.  I  tc Id  him  that 
%y  life  certainly  very  often  seemed  to  me  like  a  story,  rich 
and  wonderfully  changing.  I  had  known  what  it  was  to  be 
poor  and  alone,  and  then  to  be  in  rich  saloons ;  I  knew  what 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


405 


it  was  to  be  scorned  and  to  be  honored,  —  even  this  hour,  driv¬ 
ing  now  by  the  side  of  a  king  among  the  sunny  Alps,  this  was 
a  chapter  in  the  story  of  my  life  !  We  talked  of  the  most  re 
cent  Scandinavian  literature  ;  I  mentioned  Salomon  de  Caus, 
Robert  Fulton,  and  Tycho  Brahe,  —  how  the  art  of  poetry  in 
our  time  brought  forward  these  men  of  the  time.  Genius, 
heart,  and  piety  shone  through  all  the  words  of  the  noble 
King;  it  was  and  is  still  one  of  the  most  memorable  hours 
I  have  spent  here. 

In  the  evening  I  read  aloud  to  the  royal  pair  the  stories 
“Under  the  Willow  ”  and  “There  is  no  Doubt.”  Along  with 
Von  Donniges  I  ascended  one  of  the  nearest  mountains,  and 
had  a  view  of  the  charming  and  grand  scenery.  Time  passed 
too  quickly.  The  Queen  allowed  me  to  write  a  few  words  in 
her  album.  I  perceived  there,  among  the  names  of  emperors 
and  kings,  one  from  the  realms  of  science,  Professor  Liebig, 
whose  kind  and  winning  nature  I  had  learned  to  know  and 
admire  in  Munich. 

With  tender  heart  and  profound  gratitude  to  the  amiable 
royal  couple,  I  left  Hohenschwangau,  where  they  told  me  that 
I  should  be  welcome  again.  I  carried  with  me  a  large  bou¬ 
quet  of  Alpine  roses  and  forget-me-nots  in  the  carriage,  which 
brought  me  to  Fiissen. 

From  Munich  my  homeward  journey  took  me  through  Wei¬ 
mar.  Carl  Alexander  had  begun  his  reign  ;  he  was  just 
then  sojourning  in  the  castle  “  Wilhelmsthal,”  near  Eisenach, 
whither  I  went  and  spent  happy  days  with  the  noble  prince  in 
that  wonderfully  beautiful  country  in  the  midst  of  the  Thu- 
ringer  wood. 

The  old  Wartburg,  on  which  the  now  reigning  Grand  Duke 
in  the  course  of  years  has  spent  great  sums  of  his  own  fortune, 
in  order  to  restore  it  to  its  primitive  style,  was  now  almost  fin¬ 
ished,  with  fine  pictures  on  the  walls,  that  told  the  castle’s  tradi¬ 
tions  and  history.  Already  the  Minnesinger  Hall  was  adorned 
in  the  grandeur  of  its  time  of  yore  with  rows  of  columns  ;  and 
what  a  view  there  was  here  over  woods  and  mountains,  the 
whole  scenerv  that  existed  in  the  minnesinger  time  —  the 
Venus  Mountain,  where  Tannhauser  disappeared ;  the  three 
‘  Gleichen  ;  ”  even  the  wood-solitariness,  just  as  Walther  von 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


406 

der  Vogelweidet  and  Heinrich  von  Ofterdingen  knew  it 
Tradition  and  history  have  here  their  whole  unchanged  plan. 

On  the  little  castle  down  in  the  town  of  Eisenach  lives  the 
Duke  of  Orleans’s  widow,  with  her  two  sons,  the  Count  of 
Paris  and  the  Duke  of  Nemours.  I  heard  from  the  most  d:f- 
ferent  persons  how  much  she  and  the  children  were  loved  by 
all  there,  how  very  much  good  she  did  as  far  as  her  means 
permitted,  how  kind-hearted  and  sympathizing  she  proved  her¬ 
self, —  a  true  blessing  to  that  little  town.  I  met  in  the  street 
the  young  princes  with  their  teacher ;  they  were  plainly 
dressed,  but  looked  wide  awake  and  good ;  the  Grand  Duke 
of  Weimar  himself  presented  me  to  the  Duchess.  Quickly 
there  passed  through  my  thoughts,  what  she  had  suffered  and 
endured,  the  whole  change  in  her  life,  and  involuntarily  the 
tears  came  into  my  eyes,  even  before  I  had  begun  to  speak. 
She  remarked  it,  took  my  hand  in  a  friendly  way,  and  when  I 
looked  at  her  dead  husband’s  picture  on  the  wall,  as  young 
and  blooming  as  when  I  had  seen  him  at  Paris  at  the  ball  at 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  spoke  of  that  time,  tears  burst  from 
her  eyes  ;  she  talked  of  him,  of  her  children,  and  told  me 
kindly  that  they  knew  my  stories.  There  was  a  kindness,  a 
sincerity,  a  sadness,  and  yet  a  womanly  courage,  such  I  had 
imagined  might  belong  to  Helene  of  Orleans.  She  was  in  her 
travelling-dress,  intending  to  go  by  the  railway  train  a  few 
miles  off.  “Will  you  dine  with  me  tomorrow?”  she  asked. 
I  was  obliged  to  answer,  that  I  intended  to  leave  the  same 
day :  “In  a  year  I  shall  come  back  again  here  !  ’  “A  year  !  ” 
she  repeated  ;  “how  much  can  happen  in  a  year,  so  much  hap¬ 
pens  in  a  few  hours  !  ”  and  tears  and  thoughtfulness  mingled 
in  her  eyes.  On  taking  leave,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  and 
I  left  that  noble  princess  deeply  affected.  Her  destiny  has 
been  heavy,  but  her  heart  is  royally  grand  and  strong  in  con¬ 
fidence  toward  God. 

I  was  soon  again  in  Denmark,  and  busily  engaged.not  only 
with  the  edition  of  my  collected  writings,  but  also  with  the 
translation  of  Mosenthal’s  popular  comedy,  “Der  Sonnwend- 
hof.”  During  my  stay  in  Vienna  I  had  seen  it  at  the  Burg 
Theatre,  and  was  much  pleased  with  it.  I  drew  the  attention 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


40  7 


of  State  Counselor  Heiberg  to  it,  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it. 
Director  Lange,  on  the  contrary,  asked  me  if  I  could  get  it  for 
the  Cas:no,  and  through  the  intendant  of  the  Burg  Theatre  1 
obtained  the  piece  from  Mosenthal,  with  privilege  to  treat  it 
as  I  pleased.  From  its  connection  with  Auerbach’s  “  Village 
Tales,”  I  chose  the  name,  as  more  intelligible,  “A  Village 
Story  ;  ”  and  when  it  was  brought  on  the  stage  it  had,  as  we 
know,  a  great  success,  and  has  been  given  repeatedly.  I  added 
besides  several  songs,  which  are  necessary  for  any  representa¬ 
tion  on  the  stage  of  the  Casino.  I  had  also  made  Aiinci  in 
the  last  act,  up  in  the  Alpine  cottage,  take  up  a  burning  piece 
of  wood,  and  by  the  brightness  of  that  recognize  Mathias,  as 
she  saw  him  when  the  Ilsang  forge  was  on  fire.  Mosenthal 
afterward,  by  the  aid  of  his  Danish  friends  at  Vienna,  read 
my  translation,  and  wrote  me,  immediately  after,  a  letter  full 
of  gratitude  and  kindness  ;  and  as  to  the  few  changes  I  had 
made  in  it,  he  added  :  “  The  songs  are  extremely  well  chosen  ; 
the  effect  in  the  last  scene,  the  brandishing  of  the  burning 
wood,  is  so  plastic,  that  we  think  of  adopting  it  here  in  the 
representations.” 

My  wonder  stories1  ( Eventyr )  were,  as  I  have  before  men¬ 
tioned,  to  be  considered  as  given  entire  in  the  volume  ill  us 
trated  by  V.  Pedersen ;  the  new  ones  which  followed,  and  were 
still  to  appear,  were  now  brought  together  under  the  name 
“Stories”  ( Historier ),  which  name  I  think,  in  our  language,  is 
the  most  appropriate  for  my  wonder  stories  in  their  widest 
significance.  The  common  speech  of  the  people  places  the 
plain  narrative  and  the  most  fanciful  descriptbn  under  this 
itle  ;  nursery-tales,  fables,  and  narratives  are  called  by  the 
child,  by  the  peasant,  arid  among  the  people  generally,  by  the 
short  name,  stories. 

A  few  parts  appeared  in  Danish  and  German,  and  were 
received  very  kindly  ;  an  English  edition,  with  the  title*  “  A 

1  Some  of  these  have  recently  been  dramatized  in  Germany  and  brought' 
on  the  stage  there,  as  “The  Swineherd,”  which,  under  the  title  “The 
Princess  von  Seedcake,”  has  passed  through  a  good  many  representations, 
*nd  seems  to  have  been  brougli  t  out  at  the  Children’s  Theatre  by  C.  J. 
Gorner.  “  The  Little  Mermaid  ”  has  beet  brought  out  as  a  fairy  piece  at 
the  great  theatre  in  Vienna. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


408 

Poet’s  Day  Dreams,”  was  published  by  Richard  Bentley.  The 
review  in  “The  Athenaeum,”  1853,  shows  that  Mary  Howitts 
altered  opinion  of  me  has  not  had  any  influence  on  the 
English  critic’s  judgment.1  Just  at  this  time,  when  my  fiftieth 
year  is  reached,  and  the  collected  writings  published,  the 
“Danish  Monthly”  prints  a  review  of  them,  written  by  Mr. 
Grimur  Thomsen.  The  depth  and  warmth  which  this  author 
has  before  shown  us  in  his  book  on  Byron,  are  manifested 
also  in  this  lesser  work  ;  he  discloses  a  knowledge  of  and 
feeling  for  the  works  he  speaks  of :  it  is  to  me  almost  as  if 
our  Lord  would  that  I  should  finish  this  chapter  of  my  life 
with  the  fulfillment  of  H.  C.  Orsted’s  trusting  words  to  me  in 
the  heavy  days  when  I  was  misunderstood  !  My  home  has 
brought  me  a  rich  bouquet  of  appreciation  and  encourage¬ 
ment  ! 

In  Grimur  Thomsen’s  review  of  my  stories  he  has  just 
touched  in  a  few  words  the  right  string,  which  gives  a  sound 
from  the  depth  of  my  poesy.  It  is  surely  no  accident  that 
the  examples  intended  to  show  the  general  significance  of  my 
work  are  taken  from  my  stories,  and  what  I  hav#*  most  lately 
written  in  these  last  days :  “  The  wonder  story  holds  a  merry 
court  of  justice  over  shadow  and  substance,  over  the  outward 
shell  and  the  inward  kernel.  There  flows  a  double  stream 
through  it :  an  ironic  over-stream,  that  plays  and  sports  with 
great  and  small  things,  that  plays  shuttlecock  with  what  is 
high  and  low;  and  then  the  deep  under-siream,  that  honestly 
and  truly  brings  all  to  its  right  place.  That  is  the  true,  the 
Christian  humor  !  ”  What  I  wished  and  tried  to  attain  is  here 
clearly  expressed. 

The  story  of  my  life  up  to  this  hour  lies  now  unrolled  before 
me,  a  rich  and  beautiful  canvas,  stirring  my  faith  :  even  out 
of  evil  came  good,  out  of  pain  came  happiness,  a  poem  of 
thoughts  deeper  than  I  could  write.  I  feel  that  I  am  fortune’s 
child,  so  many  of  the  noblest  and  best  of  my  time  have  met 
me  with  affection  and  sincerity.  Seldom  has  my  confidence  in 
men  been  deceived  !  the  bitter,  heavy  days  bear  also  in  them 
the  germ  of  blessings  !  the  injustice  which  I  believed  myself 

1  See  page  367,  ante. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  409 

suffering,  the  hands  that  stretch  heavily  into  my  growing  life, 
—  these  have  brought  me  still  some  good. 

As  we  move  onward  toward  God,  what  is  bitter  and  painful 
vanishes,  what  is  beautiful  remains  ;  one  sees  it  as  the  rainbow 
on  the  dark  sky.  May  men  judge  me  mildly  as  I  in  my  heart 
judge  them  !  A  confession  of  life  has  for  all  noble  and  good 
men  the  power  of  a  holy  shrift;  here,  then,  I  yield  myself,  free 
from  fear,  openly  and  confidently:  as  if  seated  among  dear 
friends,  I  have  related  the  story  of  my  life. 

H.  C.  Anderssm. 

Copenhagen,  April  2,  1855. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE, 

CONTINUED  FROM  APRIL,  1855,  TO  DECEMBER,  1867. 

— * — 

IN  the  Danish  edition  of  my  collected  writings,  “  The  Story 
of  my  Life  ”  closed  with  my  fiftieth  birthday,  April  2d, 
1855  ;  since  then  thirteen  years,  rich  in  experience  and 
weighty,  have  gone  by  with  their  days  of  light  and  of  dark¬ 
ness.  What  I  have  to  tell  of  them  is  prepared  to  accompany 
the  new  American  edition  of  my  works,  published  by  Hurd 
and  Houghton  in  New  York. 

From  my  Danish  home,  Copenhagen,  from  this  side  of  the 
great  sea,  which  is  made  now  by  the  telegraph  thread  to  be 
nothing  but  a  low  wall  separating  neighbors,  I  tell  my  story 
for  friends  in  the  world’s  great  country,  tell  it  as  I  would  for 
my  own  beloved  Denmark  ;  and  they  will  surely  hear  it  with 
good  will,  judge  it  kindly,  and  understand  that  it  is  no  vanity 
when  I  say  aloud  that  I  am  the  child  of  fortune,  and  with 
humble  heart  wonder  that  our  Lord  should  bestow  on  me  so 
much  gladness  and  blessing. 

It  is  far  easier  to  write  one’s  youthful  life  than  to  relate  what 
has  passed  in  one’s  later  years  ;  just  as  in  old  age  most  people 
are  long-sighted  and  see  best  objects  that  are  far  off,  so  is  it 
also  with  what  belongs  to  the  soul  ;  with  all  recollection  of  what 
we  have  passed  through  and  has  stirred  us,  it  is  not  quite  easy 
to  keep  the  scenes  in  the  order  of  time  which  they  had :  yet  in 
this  also  I  am  somewhat  favored. 

When  the  poet  Ingemann  died  his  widow  sent  me  all  the 
letters  I  had  written  him  from  my  school-boy  days  till  his 
death  ;  with  these  and  her  comments  I  have  been  able  to  give 
what  unfolded  itself  in  my  life  year  by  year  since  April,  1855. 
when  I  closed  my  autobiography. 

And  I  may  well  begin  with  Ingemann  and  his  wife.  “  The 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


41  I 

Old  People  by  the  Forest  Lake,”  1  which  he  wrote  on  a  picture 
of  their  house  at  Soro  and  sent  me.  I  never,  in  any  year,  passed 
there  without  spending  some  days  with  these  charming  people. 
And  so  in  the  spring  of  1855  my  first  visit  was  to  the  home  of 
the  Ingemanns,’  where  I  and  where  whoever  came  must  feel 
that  here  lived  a  man  good  and  more  than  good.  It  was  2 
happy  life  they  led,  two  loving  souls  ;  they  lived  over  again 
the  pretty  tale  of  “  Philemon  and  Baucis.”  Everything  went 
on  in  a  quiet,  happy  way.  Ingemann,  I  believe,  never  gave 
parties  ;  people  dropped  in  of  an  evening  of  their  own  accord, 
and  often  the  callers  became  quite  a  party;  but  it  was  like  a 
table  that  set  itself.  All  was  as  if  ordered  and  carried  out  by 
invisible  little  elves  ;  there  was  no  anxious  bustle  to  be  seen, 
but  all  made  themselves  agreeable  with  lively  conversation. 
Ingemann  especially  was  the  most  quick  and  entertaining  ; 
particularly  when  he  told  the  ghost  stories  that  are  commonly 
connected  with  the  monastery  here  and  its  neighborhood,  he 
told  them  with  such  a  humorous  smile  that  one  who  knew  him 
knew  at  once  that  the  stories  were  made  up  at  the  moment, 
suggested  by  one  thing  or  another  that  came  up  in  conversa¬ 
tion  ;  frequently  he  borrowed  the  names  of  real  persons  to  help 
out  his  stories,  but  always  good-naturedly.  He  snapped  his  fin¬ 
ger  at  all  the  trivial  topics  of  the  day  and  twaddle ;  he  shook 
by  the  neck  all  poor  and  ungenerous  critics.  A  few  of  his 
most  read  romances  there  were  which  became  popular,  but  peo¬ 
ple  have  been  unjust  toward  him,  and  of  that  I  also  can  com¬ 
plain.  The  conversation  one  evening  turned  on  this,  and  Inge¬ 
mann  told  a  pleasant  story  full  of  comfort  and  a  moral  for  both 
of  us.  The  good  old  gardener  of  the  academy,  Nissen,  used  to 
say  very  civilly,  “  You  are  in  the  right,  and  I  thank  you,”  but 
he  did  not  change  his  opinion  for  all  that,  but  did  as  he  liked 
“  Do  you  know,”  asked  Ingemann,  “how  this  saying  origi¬ 
nated  ?  It  is  quite  notable.  When  the  gardener  Nissen  was 
employed  at  the  academy  he  displayed  good  ability  in  his 
work,  still  he  was  obliged  to  swallow  a  good  deal  of  talk  about 
it :  one  said  the  work  should  be  done  thus,  another  so,  and 
he  took  it  hard,  got  into  bad  humor  and  went  and  fretted 
about  it.  He  met  in  the  garden,  one  day,  a  little  gray  man. 
with  a  red  cap  on  ;  the  little  man  asked  him  who  he  was. 

1  De  Gam?'’  ved  Skew  wen. 


412 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


‘“I  am  Nissen,’  answered  the  gardener. 

“‘  Nissen  ?  ’  said  the  little  man.  ‘Yes,  you  are  named 
Nissen,  but  I  am  the  Nis  ( Danish  Nissen)  of  the  academy, 
the  house  Nis.  Why  do  you  look  so  depressed  ? ’ 

“  ‘  O,’  said  the  gardener  Nissen,  ‘  all  that  I  do  with  my  best 
endeavor,  I  get  no  thanks  for  ;  one  says  this,  another  says; 
that.  I  cannot  do  anything  to  suit,  and  that  troubles  me  :  that 
is  what  makes  me  sad.’ 

“  ‘  I’ll  help  you  there,’  said  the  little  Nis,  ‘  but  you  must 
serve  me  for  eight  whole  days.  I  live  over  there  back  of  the 
lake,  where  I  have  a  garden  that  you  shall  take  care  of.  I 
will  meantime  tell  you  beforehand  there  are  a  good  many 
queer  animals  over  there,  kept  in  cages,  —  monkeys,  parrots,  and 
cockatoos, —  that  make  a  murderous  noise,  but  they  don’t  bite.’ 

“‘Good!’  said  the  gardener  Nissen,  and  so  he  went  with 
the  Nis  of  the  academy  and  took  care  of  his  garden  for  eight 
days.  The  small  creatures  were  all  the  time  screaming  around 
him.  When  the  week  was  finished  the  little  fellow  came,  and 
asked  him  how  it  came  that  he  saw  him  now  in  such  good 
spirits  and  so  well. 

“  ‘  Did  you  get  well  because  there  was  such  a  screeching  going 
on  ?  ’ 

“  ‘  O,  the  screeching,’  said  the  gardener  Nissen  ;  ‘  I  let  that 
go  into  one  ear  and  out  of  the  other  ;  they  scolded  me  and 
said  that  all  I  did  was  done  wrong  ;  but  I  laughed  and  nodded 
to  them  and  said,  “  You  are  in  the  right;  thank  you,”  and  so 
I  minded  my  business :  the  screeching  is  not  anything  to  lay 
*o  heart.’ 

“‘  Just  so  do  you  carry  yourself  over  there  in  the  academy 
garden,  and  mind  your  business.’ 

“The  gardener  Nissen  followed  the  advice,  kept  his  good 
humor,  and  the  phrases  ‘You  are  in  the  right ;  thank  you,’  — 
‘Shouldn’t  we  act  just  so?’”  wound  up  Ingemann,  with  a 
roguish  smile. 

He  was  full  of  similar  little  stories,  and  very  inventive. 
For  the  rest,  his  judgment  was  tender;  the  love  of  father-land, 
of  the  beautiful  and  the  good,  grew  and  flourished  in  this  true 
poetic  home,  where  I  always  had  the  delightful  confidence,  — • 
Here  am  I  a  dear  and  welcome  guest.  Quickly  passed  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


413 


hours  here  with  the  two  dear  old  folks  by  the  wood  lake.  I 
could  thoroughly  enjoy  this  idyllic  life,  but  I  began  to  feel 
such  a  twitching  in  my  wings  that  I  must  get  on  :  the  .hospita¬ 
ble  Basnos  and  Holsteenborg  threw  open  to  me  a  manoi  life, 
prosperous  and  happy.  From  there,  the  first  thing  in  the 
summer,  I  went  to  Maxen,  near  Dresden,  where  a  tree  of  my 
planting,  which  I  had  sheltered  and  taken  care  of,  grew  and 
flourished.  An  oak,  no  larger  than  I  could  span  with  my  two 
hands,  I  planted  in  the  garden  in  front  of  the  house,  grows  now 
with  large  branches ;  and  a  letter  of  mine  to  Ingemann  will 
give  more  fully  a  picture  of  the  journey  and  the  stay  there  :  — 

“Maxen,  near  Dresden,  July  12,  1855. 

“  Dear  Ingemann.  — You  remember  in  my  autobiography 
my  tree  at  Maxen,  where  my  friends  the  Serres  live.  You  will 
know,  then,  a  little  of  the  place  where  I  now  am.  It  is  near 
Saxon  Switzerland.  It  is  very  beautiful.  My  tree  stands  fresh 
and  hearty,  down  to  its  very  roots  ;  from  the  bench  up  here  un¬ 
der  the  tree  I  have  a  bird’s-eye  view  of  a  large  village  and  a 
meadow  where  the  hay  stands  stacked.  The  bluish  mountains 
of  Bohemia  lie  before  me,  and  about  me  grow  chestnut  and 
cherry-trees.  The  sheep  move  about  with  bells  till  I  think  I 
am  among  the  Alps.  Serre’s  property  contains  besides,  a  fine 
old  manor-house  with  arched  passages  and  a  great  towei. 
Madame  Serre  is  so  good,  so  untiringly  attentive  to  me.  I 
hear  fine  music,  and  the  reading  of  poems  ;  famous  and  notable 
people,  and  other  gentlefolk  flit  in  and  out  here,  in  this  hospi¬ 
table  home,  till  it  seems  like  an  open  inn.  I  certainly  have  en¬ 
tire  freedom,  and  that  one  does  not  always  get  when  he  is  to 
be  an  agreeable  guest ;  so  I  quite  enjoy  myself.  Besides,  I  feel 
m  this  journey  more  than  ever  before  the  need  of  family  life, — 
I  care  so  much  about  being  with  people  ;  so  that  I  care  less 
and  less  every  day  about  visiting  Italy.  I  shall  probably  stay 
at  home  next  winter.  Now  I  am  going  to  take  a  flying  trip 
of  eight  days  to  Munich,  and  thence  to  Switzerland,  where  I 
expect  to  have  a  happy  time  touring  among  the  Alps,  if  God 
will  but  give  me  health  and  a  cheerful  mind,  —  these  blessings 
I  have  missed  hitherto  on  this  journey.  This,  to  be  sure,  was 
only  during  the  days,  but  they  were  pair  fully  oppressive.  Ham- 


4H 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


burg  seemed  to  me  an  empty  exchange  on  the  hot  sunimei 
day  ;  the  road  to  Berlin,  was  a  dusty  hot  baker’s  oven.  I  had 
no  wish  to  visit  any  one  in  Berlin,  and  hurried  away  to  Maxen, 
out  in  God’s  own  country,  to  friendly  people.  To  travel  is 
to  live  !  Now  do  you  think  about  setting  out  with  your  wife  : 
four  hours  from  Stettin  to  Berlin,  and  then  five  hours  more  to 
Dresden,  where  she  longs  to  go  and  visit  the  picture  galleries. 
Forget  the  old  time,  the  long  journey  it  then  was  into  the  cap¬ 
ital  of  Saxony;  now  we  fly  on  Faust’s  mantle.  The  travel 
by  rail  is  the  most  poetic  flight  that  our  heavy-bodied  people 
can  take  safely  and  soundly.” 

In  Munich  I  found  a  letter  from  Ingemann,  which  contained 
kind  words  from  him  and  my  many  friends  over  the  book  I 
had  then  just  published,  “  The  Story  of  my  Life.”  The  letter 
closed  as  follows  :  — 

“You  have  just  left  your  flourishing  tree  at  Maxen,  and 
your  good  friends  that  gathered  about  it ;  but  wherever  your 
story-bird  has  flown  out  into  the  world,  there  you  will  find  a 
fresh  green  tree,  with  friendly  shadows  and  gentle  eyes  near 
by.  If  you  go  seeking  such  trees  and  such  eyes  on  the  Faust 
mantle,  you  will  entice  me  after  you  (it’s  more  like  the  beast 
that  Dante  rode  by  Virgil’s  side  when  he  went  through  hell); 
and  I  am  too  old  and  stiff  for  that.  Indeed,  the  world  is  be¬ 
ginning  to  rumble  about  me  and  our  little  monastery  here,  with 
its  steam  and  its  whistle  ;  and  when  the  mountains  come  to  us, 
we  have  as  little  need  as  Mohammed  to  go  running  after  them. 
The  poet’s  house  ought  to  be  on  wheels,  so  that  it  can  go  roll¬ 
ing  off  when  the  locomotive  comes.  Every  one  to  his  taste. 
Your  house  stands  for  the  present  by  the  locomotive’s  huge 
dragon-tail.” 

I  remained  some  little  time  in  artistic  Munich,  and  spent 
many  memorable  hours  with  Kaulbach  and  his  family.  At  Pro¬ 
fessor  Liebig’s  I  heard  Geibel  read  the  first  acts  of  his  tragedy, 
“  Brunhilde  ;  ”  among  the  guests  invited  to  hear  the  play  was 
the  celebrated  actress,  Miss  Seebach,  who  was  to  take  the  first 
part  in  his  drama.  I  had  enjoyed  seeing  her  act  in  several 
plays,  and  I  knew  that  she  was  regarded  with  great  respect 
by  tfiose  who  knew  her.  One  thing  I  desire  to  say :  There 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


415 

i s  a  poor  custom  by  which  the  public,  after  the  tragedy  is  over, 
call  out  the  murdered  heroine,  and  it  is  still  worse  to  see 
her  come  out  smiling  and  courtesying.  A  great  actress  should 
break  up  this  evil  custom,  and  not  come  out,  no  matter  how 
loudly  they  called  for  her.  Miss  Seebach  admitted  that  I  was 
right,  and  I  urged  her  to  begin  the  reform. 

The  evening  after,  they  performed  “  Cabal  and  Love,”  1  where 
she  appeared  as  Louise:  and  after  she  had  drunk  the  poison, 
she  was  called  out.  She  did  not  come.  I  was  delighted.  The 
call  for  her  became  louder,  still  she  held  out ;  but  the  clamor 
and  shouting  rose  into  a  very  storm,  she  showed  herself,  and 
so  I  had  made  nothing  in  my  attack  on  a  dramatic  vice. 

It  is  a  delight  and  indeed  a  necessity  for  me  to  travel  a 
little  out  and  about  in  the  world  ;  economy  and  frugality  at 
home  have  made  this  possible  to  me  ;  but  I  have  often  thought 
how  much  finer  it  would  be  if  one  were  so  rich  that  he  could 
take  a  friend  with  him,,  and  this  has  been  permitted  to  me  also 
a  few  times,  in  spite  of  my  narrow  means.  I  have  several 
times  received  from  princes  presents  of  breast-pins  and  gold 
rings  ;  my  noble  donors  will,  I  am  sure,  pardon  me,  and  be 
glad  that  I  sent  these  articles  to  the  jewelers,  got  money  for 
them,  and  so  could  say  to  a  dear  young  friend  who  had  never 
seen  anything  outside  of  his  home  :  “Take  a  trip  with  me  for 
a  month  or  two,  as  long  as  the  money  lasts.”  The  bright  eyes 
I  have  then  seen  gave  me  far  more  pleasure  than  the  glitter¬ 
ing  stones  in  the  breast-pins  and  rings.  This  time  there  accom¬ 
panied  me  from  Munich,  Edgar  Collin,  who,  with  his  interest 
in  all  that  he  saw,  his  happy  youthful  spirit,  and  kind  atten¬ 
tion  to  me,  made  the  journey  very  delightful.  We  went  by 
Ulm  and  Wiirtemberg  to  Wildbad  Gastein,  where  my  friend, 
State- Councilor  Edward  Collin,  with  his  family,  was  staying 
during  the  season. 

The  Black  Forest,  in  which  Auerbach’s  “  Village  Stories  ’* 
had  their  origin,  I  visited  for  the  first  time.  It  was  bright, 
sunny  weather,  and  now  began  our  happy  life  together.  Then 
again  I  mounted  the  vapor  dragon’s  back,  as  Ingemann  called 
fhe  railway  train,  for  a  greater  country, —  for  Switzerland,  with 
;’ts  deep  lakes  and  lofty  mountains.  From  Lucerne  I  wished  to 

Kabale  og  Kjccrlighed. 


4  I  6  THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE. 

v«# 

take  the  steamboat  with  my  young  companion  to  Fluellen ;  he 
was  taken  sick  on  board,  and  felt  worse  and  wcrse;  so  I  de¬ 
termined  to  stop  at  the  next  landing-place,  which  was  the 
village  of  Brunnen.  My  young  friend  was  well  taken  care 
of  in  the  hotel  there,  and  on  the  next  day  was  well  enough  to 
want  to  read  some  book.  The  landlord  brought  him  several, 
and  among  them  was  a  Swiss  almanac.  In  it  was  a  portrait 
of  Humboldt,  as  representative  of  science ;  and  hard  by  it  was 
a  portrait  of  H.  C.  Andersen,  the  fairy-tale  poet. 

“  Here  is  your  portrait !  ”  cried  Edgar.  The  landlord  looked 
at  it  and  at  me,  gave  me  a  friendly  grasp  of  the  hand,  and  at 
once  I  found  a  friend  in  him,  and  friends,  too,  in  his  two  sisters, 
who  managed  the  house.  One  of  these,  Agathe,  was,  like  her 
brother,  very  musical.  She  would  give  me  a  whole  artistic 
evening  with  her  music.  Always  afterward,  when  I  can.e  to 
Switzerland,  I  visited  these  friends,  who  still  live  there;  they 
are  of  old  Swiss  stock  ;  in  Schiller’s  William  Tell,”  their 
name  is  given  as  Aid"  der  Mauer. 

The  accident  of  the  journey,  Collin’s  illness,  and  the  con¬ 
sequent  interruption  of  die  whole  trip  there  at  the  lake,  really 
was  a  sprout  from  which  grew  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  for  both 
of  us,  and  for  me  not  only  at  the  time,  but  in  after  years.  At  a 
later  visit  I  had  a  pleasure  I  had  not  dreamed  of.  The  even¬ 
ing  before  the  day  I  was  to  set!  out,  there  glided  out  in  front 
of  the  hotel  a  boat  with  torches  and  music  ;  it  looked  charm¬ 
ing  to  us.  All  the  guests  at  the  hotel  came  out  on  the  bal¬ 
cony. 

“  What  does  it  mean  ?  ”  I  asked  Agathe. 

“  It  is  a  greeting  for  you,”  said  she. 

“  O,  don’t  fancy  such  a  thing,”  I  replied  —  “  music  on  my 
account !  ” 

“  But  it  is,”  she  replied. 

“  Nonsense  !  ”  said.  I.  “  It  is  all  accidental ;  and  if  I  were 
to  go  out  and  thank  them,  how  horribly  ridiculous  I  should 
appear,  when  it  was  not  meant  for  me  a?t  all !  ” 

•  It  is  for  you,”  she  persisted.  I  felt  myself  uncertain,  but 
went  meanwhile  down  to  the  shore,  where  several  people  had 
gathered,  and  where  the  boat  had  now  stopped.  I  spoke  to 
the  first  one  who  stepped  ashore,  saying,  — 


417 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


“  That  was  fine  music.  Whom  was  it  for  ?  ” 

“  You,”  said  he,  and  now  I  pressed  his  hand  and  that  of  a 
few  others.  Whether  the  whole  celebration  was  a  piece  of 
courtesy  toward  me  by  Agathe  Auf  der  Mauer,  or  whether  I 
really  have  in  this  little  town  many  musical  friends  of  my 
poesy,  is  not  yet  quite  clear  to  me.  But  certain  it  is  that 
Brunnen  has  become  for  me  a  memorable  Swiss  town. 

In  Zurich  lived  the  composer  Wagner  in  exile.  I  knew  his 
music,  as  I  have  before  said.  Liszt  had  warmly  told  me  of  the 
man  himself.  I  went  to  his  house,  and  was  received  in  a 
friendly  manner.  Of  the  Danish  composers  he  knew  only 
Gade  well  ;  we  talked  of  his  reputation,  and  then  of  Kuhlau, 
a  composer  for  the  flute,  none  of  whose  operas  he  had  seen. 
Hartmann  was  known  to  him  only  by  name.  I  got  to  telling 
him,  therefore,  of  the  great  storehouse  of  Danish  music,  in 
strumental  and  vocal,  all  the  way  from  Schultz,  Kunzen,  and 
the  elder  Hartmann  to  Weyse,  Kuhlau,  Hartmann,  and  Gade. 
I  named  several  of  these  composers’ works,  and  told  of  Schall’s 
ballet  composition,  and  Wagner  heard  me  with  great  attention. 

“  ’Tis  as  if  you  told  me  a  real  fairy  tale  from  the  world  of 
music,  and  rolled  up  for  me  the  curtain  that  shuts  off  from 
me  all  beyond  the  Elbe,”  he  said. 

I  told  him  of  the  Swede  Belmann,  akin  to  Wagner  in  this, 
that  both  themselves  wrote  the  text  for  their  music,  but  in 
other  respects  quite  opposed  to  each  other.  Wagner  im¬ 
pressed  me  fully  as  having  a  most  genial  nature,  and  it  was  a 
most  happy  hour,  —  such  a  one  as  I  have  never  since  had. 

On  the  journey  home,  which  led  through  Cassel,  I  called  on 
Spohr  ;  he  was  living  in  his  old  place  on  the  street  that  now 
bsars  his  name.  Since  1847,  when  we  often  met  in  London, 
I  had  not  seen  him,  and  now  it  was  the  last  time  ;  a  few  years 
after  the  knell  went  through  the  country  —  Spohr  is  dead. 
How  gay  he  was  when  I  saw  him  at  this  last  visit !  We  talked 
of  Hartmann’s  opera,  “The  Raven”1  which  he  set  a  high 
value  on,  and  wished  to  bring  on  the  stage  at  Cassel ;  he  had 
even  written  to  Hartmann  about  it,  but  it  could  not  be  brought 
about  for  want  of  a  singer  to  take  the  part  of  Armilla . 

From  Cassel  I  journeyed  to  Weimar  tc  see  my  friends;  and 

1  Ravnen. 


27 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


4l8 

most  cordially  as  ever  was  received  at  the  court.  The  ir.rerest 
of  the  hereditary  Grand  Duke  Karl  Alexander  and  Kappel- 
meister  Listz  in  Hartmann’s  music  brought  “  The  Little  Chris¬ 
tine,”  1  to  which  I  had  written  the  text,  to  be  studied  under  the 
title  of  “  Little  Karin  ;  ”  it  received  the  greatest  praise  from  all 
the  connoisseurs  in  music. 

The  last  of  the  year  I  was  again  in  Copenhagen,  where  I 
prepared,  for  the  Casino  Theatre,  MosenthaPs  popular  comedy, 
“  Der  Sonnvendhoff,”  to  which  I  gave  a  name  better  under¬ 
stood  by  us,  “  A  Village  Story.”  I  wrote  for  it  a  chorus  and 
songs,  and  the  piece  was  a  success. 

With  a  few  words  from  a  letter  which  I  wrote  on  the  last 
evening  of  the  year  I  will  close  the  record  of  1855  :  — 

“  Out  of  doors  it  is  not  wintry,  but  rather  autumnal  —  rain 
and  sleet,  dirty  streets  that  make  themselves,  look  like  the 
Nile  with  their  deep  mud.  So  I  feel  a  pleasure  in  this  in  door 
life,  and  if  I  continue  in  keeping  with  it,  then  perhaps  I  may  do 
something :  I  wish  that  1  The  Story  of  my  Life  ’  was  pub¬ 
lished  ;  then  I  may  begin  a  new  Life.  I  might  produce  a  work 
which  would  merit  the  name  of  1  a  work.’  I  wish  that  like  you 
I  might  keep  my  freshness,  and  like  you  accomplish  some¬ 
thing.” 

1856. 

Already,  on  the  second  day  of  the  year,  came  Ingemann’s 
greeting  and  his  thanks  for  the  letter  I  wrote.  “  It  is  right 
good  of  you  on  New  Year’s  Eve  to  stretch  out  your  hand  to 
us  here  in  Soro,  so  that  we  here  on  New  Year’s  morning  can 
see  the  hand  in  spirit.  You  are  a  steadfast  affectionate  fellow, 
and  we  know  it.” 

The  \  ear  was  not  so  bright  and  happy  as  Ingemann  had 
wished  it  for  me.  One  can  have  days  in  which  all  kinds  of  mis¬ 
fortune  seem  to  come  together,  and  it  is  very  certain  that  one 
also  can  have  such  years,  and  such  was  to  me  the  year  1856, 
The  year’s  drop  of  water  was,  it  seemed  to  me,  full  of  small 
disagreeable  animalculae,  —  discomforts,  vexations,  annoyances, 
which  I  will  not  place  under  the  glass  to  show  them  ;  foi 
now  they  look  as  small  as  grains  of  sand,  or  little  insects 

1  Liden  Kirsten . 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


4T9 


that  can  fly  into  one’s  eye,  and  pain  and  burn'  one  so  long  as 
they  stay  there,  but  get  them  out  and  look  at  them,  and  one 
says  —  the  midge  ! 

My  whole  thought  and  endeavor  was  to  accomplish  some¬ 
thing  worth  while.  I  was  not,  as  Sibbern  had  believed  and 
said,  a  pious,  dreaming  child-soul  ;  many  religious  sttuggles 
I  had  passed  through  to  preserve  faith  and  knowledge  in 
the  secret  chamber  of  my  heart.  I  wrote  “  To  be  or  not  to 
be,”  a  romance  of  Danish  life  in  war  time.  I  made  many 
studies  for  it,  and  read  for  it  a  great  deal  of  what  had  been 
written  on  Materialism.  It  interested  Ingemann  to  hear  about 
it.  I  gave  to  him  to  read  the  remarkable  book  then  just  pub¬ 
lished,  “  Eritis  sicut  Deus.”  I  attended  Professor  Esricht’s  lec¬ 
tures  on  Materialism. 

Ingemann  wrote  to  me  a  letter  characteristic  of  himself 
and  his  opinion  in  these  words  :  — 

“  When  you  favor  me  again  with  a  letter,  let  me  know  what 
Esricht  sets  up  against  Materialism.  He  attacks  it  as  if  it 
were  a  personal  living  God,  or  a  force  of  Nature  ;  the  highest 
Lawgiver  of  the  world’s  law,  or  an  abstract  Idea's  idea,  out  of 
which  his  unknown  laws  are  evolved,  and  which  first  appeals 
to  man’s  consciousness  as  a  dead  first  cause.  In  the  last  case 
you  have  that  in  your  pious,  ardent  faith  in  God ;  one  can  ask 
far  more  than  what  the  knowledge  of  nature  points  out.  Be¬ 
sides,  we  can  surely  always  get  some  good  from  going  to  school 
to  the  students  in  nature,  however  old  we  maybe.” 

In  the  summer  I  again  was  off  on  my  journey,  and  once 
more  at  Maxen  with  iny  friends  the  Serres,  where  I  wrote  to 
Ingemann :  — 

•i 

“  Dear  Friend,  —  I  sent  you  a  greeting  from  the  station  at 
Sorb  while  I  paused  there.  Soro  had  a  most  friendly  aspect ; 
:he  lake  shone  with  gold  and  purple.  I  am  now  at  Maxen, 
where  everything  is  clad  in  summer  beauty  ;  the  cherries  are 
ripening,  the  roses  are  blooming,  and  my  tree  stands  up 
hearty  and  strong  on  the  edge  of  tne  cliff.  We  have  here  on 
a  visit  the  author  Gutzhow,  whose  latest  play,  ‘  Ella’s  Suc¬ 
cess,’  1  you  know,  as  well  as  his  celebrated  romance,  ‘  Ritter 

1  Ella  gjijr  Lykhe 


420 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


von  Geiste.’  If  it  had  not  been  in  nine  parts,  I  should  have 
read  it.  On  Sunday  my  plan  is  to  pay  a  visit  in  Weimar 
The  Grand  Duke  celebrates  his  birthday  on  the  24th  of  May. 
Goethe’s  ‘  Faust,’  second  part,  is  to  be  given,  and  I  am  very 
glad  that  I  should  have  come  here  now.” 

o 


In  September  I  was  again  in  Copenhagen  :  all  my  thoughts, 
all  my  time,  were  upon  my  romance,  “  To  be  or  not  to  be,” 
on  which  I  myself  set  great  store.  It  has  seemed  to  me  since, 
however,  that  all  I  had  labored  to  gather  and  make  my  own 
touched  me  less  than  that  one  of  God’s  gifts — the  poetic 
thought  in  the  book. 

i857- 

In  April  I  wrote  to  Ingemann :  “  I  have  lately  had  a  most 
welcome  letter  from  Charles  Dickens.  He  writes  that  he  has 
this  month  finished  his  novel,  ‘  Little  Dorrit,’  and  is  now  a 
‘freeman.’  He  has  a  pretty  country  seat  between  Roches¬ 
ter  and  London,  where  he  moves  with  his  family  in  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  June,  and  he  expects  me  there.  I  shall  find  a  pleasant 
home  and  dear  friends.  I  am  delighted  at  the  invitation  to  go, 
and  I  will  see  if  I  can  make  my  route  by  Soro  the  last  of  May, 
so  as  to  be  with  you  on  your  birthday,  the  28th  of  May.  In 
a  week  from  now  my  romance,  ‘To  be  or  not  to  be,’  will  be 
published.  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  dedicating  it  to  the 
poet  Ingemann  and  the  philosopher  Sibbern  :  you  will  be¬ 
lieve  I  am  grateful  to  you.” 

One  of  the  first  persons  I  read  my  new  book  to,  when  it 
was  out,  was  her  majesty  the  Queen  Dowager  Caroline 
Amelia.  She  and  her  royal  consort  have  always  been  gra¬ 
cious  and  good  to  me.  I  spent  this  time  several  days  in  the 
oeautiful,  woody  “  Sorgenfri.”  1  The  forest  put  forth  its  leaves 
while  I  was  there  ;  every  evening  I  read  some  chapters  of  the 
romance,  which  relate  to  the  heavy  but  yet  exhilarating  war  , a 
while  reading  I  often  saw  the  noble  Queen  deeply  moved,  and 
at  the  close  of  the  book  she  expressed  her  thanks  fervently. 

The  Queen  Dowager  belongs  to  that  class  of  noble,  thought¬ 
ful  women  whose  high  rank  one  forgets  when  he  is  with  them, 
1  Or  Sans  Souci.  2  The  first  war  with  Prussia,  1848. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


421 


and  rejoices  only  in  their  noble  humanity.  One  evening  her 
majesty  took  an  excursion  through  the  wood  and  out  on  the 
“  Strand  road.”  I  was  in  another  carriage  with  two  of  the 
ladies  of  the  court.  As  her  majesty  drove  by  a  place  on  the 
road  where  a  lot  of  children  were  playing,  they  recognized 
her,  stood  in  a  row,  and  cried,  “  Hurra  !  ”  A  little  after 
came  the  carriage  in  which  I  sat.  “  There  is  Andersen,” 
cried  the  little  things  ;  “  hurra  !  ”  After  we  had  returned  home, 
the  Queen  said,  smiling,  “  I  believe  all  the  children  know  us 
*.wo.  I  heard  their  shouts  of  hurra.” 

In  the  streets  and  from  windows  there  often  nodded  to  me 
l  friendly  child’s  face.  I  met  one  day  a  well-dressed  lady 
talking  with  her  children  :  the  smallest  boy  broke  away,  ran 
/ver  to  me,  and  seized  me  by  the  hand.  The  mother  called  to 
aim  and  said,  as  I  afterward  heard,  “  How  dare  you  accost  a 
strange  gentleman  !  ”  but  the  little  fellow  replied,  “  It  was  no 
stranger,  it  was  Andersen  ;  all  the  boys  know  him.” 

It  was  this  spring  ten  years  since  I  had  been  in  England. 
In  this  time  Dickens  had  often  given  me  the  pleasure  of  his 
letters,  and  now  I  was  accepting  his  friendly  invitation.  For¬ 
tunate  indeed  was  I  !  The  stay  at  Dickens's  house  must  ever 
be  a  bright  point  in  my  life.  I  passed  through  Holland  to 
France,  and  on  the  night  of  May  n,  took  the  boat  from  Calais 
to  Dover.  In  my  “  Collected  Writings  ”  is  a  detailed  account 
of  my  most  delightful  visit,  where  the  man  Dickens  showed 
himself  as  unfailingly  kind  to  me  as  Dickens  the  writer. 
Here  follows  a  brief  account  of  what  has  been  given  in  full. 

In  the  early  morning  I  reached  London  by  rail,  and  im¬ 
mediately  sought  the  northern  railway  that  took  me  to 
Iligham.  Here  was  no  carriage  to  be  had,  so  I  put  myself 
under  the  guide  of  one  of  the  railway  porters,  who  took  my 
bag,  and  we  came  to  Gadshill,  where  Dickens  had  his  pretty 
villa.  He  received  me  heartily,  was  looking  a  little  older 
than  when  we  last  met ;  but  this  look  of  age  was  owing  a  good 
deal  to  his  beard,  which  he  had  let  grow.  His  eyes  were  as 
bright  as  ever  ;  the  same  smile  played  about  his  mouth,  the 
same  pleasant  voice  sounded  as  kindly  ;  in  all  this  there  was 
more  heartiness  than  ever.  Dickens  was  now  in  the  prime  of 
life,  in  his  forty-fifth  year  —  so  youthful,  full  of  life,  eloquent 


i 


422 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIrE 


and  rich  in  humor,  that  gleamed  through  his  hearty  affection 
ateness.  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  say  anything  more  signifi- 
cant  than  the  words  I  wrote  of  him  in  one  of  my  first  letters 
from  his  house  :  “Take  the  best  out  of  all  Dickens’s  writings 
to  get  a  picture  of  a  man,  and  you  have  Charles  Dickens.” 
And  so  as  he  stood  before  me  in  the  first  hour  I  was  there, 
he  was  and  continued  to  be  unchanged  all  the  weeks  I  spent 
with  him,  —  always  full  of  life,  happy,  and  sympathetic. 

Some  days  before  my  arrival  a  friend  of  Dickens,  the  drama 
tist  Douglas  Jerrold,  had  died :  in  order  to  secure  a  few  thou¬ 
sand  pounds  for  his  widow,  Dickens  with  Bulwer,  Thackeray, 
and  the  actor  Macready,  joined  together.  A  drama  and  several 
recitations  were  on  the  programme.  All  this  active  labor  and 
business  fell  to  him,  so  that  he  had  to  go  oftener  than  others 
to  London,  and  stay  there  whole  days.  I  went  with  him  a  few 
times,  and  stayed  at  his  comfortable  winter  residence  in  Lon¬ 
don.  I  accompanied  him  and  his  family  to  the  Handel  festi¬ 
val  at  the  Crystal  Palace  ;  we  both  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
unapproachable  tragic  actress  Ristori,  as  Camma  and  as  Lady 
Macbeth ;  it  was  especially  in  the  last  role  that  she  impressed 
us  ;  there  was  in  all  her  representation  a  psychologic  truth  ; 
terrible,  and  still  within  the  bounds  of  beauty :  it  is  impos¬ 
sible  that  ever  before  or  since  a  more  true  and  impressive  pic¬ 
ture  could  be  given  of  this  woman,  so  tremulous  in  soul  and 
body. 

I  saw  the  grand  and  fanciful  manner  in  which  Director 
Kean,  son  of  the  famous  actor,  brought  Shakespeare’s  plays 
on  the  stage :  the  first  representation  of  the  storm,  where  the 
mise  en  scene  was  carried  to  an  exaggerated  length  ;  the  bold 
poetry  was  turned  into  stone  in  the  illustration  ;  the  living 
word  vanished,  one  does  not  get  the  spirituality  belonging  to 
it,  and  then  forgets  it  for  the  gold  dish  that  it  is  served  in. 

A  work  of  Shakespeare’s  artistically  brought  out,  if  only  be¬ 
tween  three  folding  screens,  gives  me  a  greater  pleasure  than 
,  here,  where  it  had  all  the  accessories  of  beauty. 

Of  the  representations  that  were  given  for  the  benefit  of 
Jerrold’s  widow,  that  was  a  special  treat  in  which  Dickens 
with  some  of  his  family  acted  a  new  romantic  drama,  “The 
Frozen  Deep,”  by  Wilkie  Collins,  who  himself  took  one  of  th« 
principal  characters.  Dickens  the  other. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


423 


In  Dickens’s  house  dramatic  representations  were  frequently 
given  to  good  friends.  Her  majesty  the  Queen  had  long 
wished  to  see  one  of  these,  and  now  wished  to  honor  it  by  her 
presence  in  the  little  theatre,  “The  Gallery  of  Illustration.” 
There  the  only  spectators  were  the  Queen,  Prince  Albert,  the 
v  royal  children,  and  the  young  Prince  and  Princess,  also  his 
Majesty  the  King  of  Belgium  ;  besides  this  royal  circle  a  select 
company  of  the  actor’s  immediate  friends  was  given  admis¬ 
sion  ;  from  Dickens’s  house  came  only  his  wife,  his  mother-in- 
law,  and  myself. 

Dickens  performed  his  part  in  the  drama  with  striking 
truthfulness  and  great  dramatic  genius  ;  the  little  farce,  “  Two 
o’clock  in  the  Morning,”  was  given  with  great  vivacity  by 
Charles  Dickens  and  the  editor  of  “  Punch,”  Mr.  Mark 
Lemon,  who,  we  hear,  has  since  appeared  in  public  with  great 
success  as  Falstaff.  After  the  performance  I  spent  a  good 
part  of  the  night  with  all  the  actors  and  those  aiding  them, 
and  bright  hours  they  were,  at  the  office  of  “  Household 
Words;”  a  festival  afterward  repeated  in  the  country  at  the 
house  of  Albert  Smith,  who  ascended  Mont  Blanc.  At  Dick¬ 
ens’s  country  seat  I  saw  England’s  richest  lady,  Miss  Burdett 
Coutts,  of  whom  every  one  speaks  as  one  of  the  noblest  and 
most  benevolent  of  women  ;  it  is  not  enough  that  she  has 
built  many  churches,  but  she  cares  in  the  most  rational  and 
Christian  manner  for  the  poor,  the  sick,  and  the  needy.  She 
invited  me  to  visit  at  her  house  in  London  ;  I  went  there  and 
saw  an  English  house  of  the  wealthiest  sort,  where  yet  the 
noble,  womanly,  excellent  Miss  Coutts  was  to  me  the  most 
memorable  part. 

With  all  the  variety  and  splendor  of  the  life  in  London  I 
was  always  glad  to  go  once  more  to  my  own  home  at  Gads- 
hi.l  :  it  was  so  delightful  in  the  little  room  where  Dickens 
and  his  wife  and  daughters  gathered  around  the  piano.  They 
were  happy  hours,  and  still  there  often  came  there  heavy, 
dark  moments,  not  from  within,  but  from  without.  Once,  I 
remember,  when  I  was  unhappy  over  some  criticism  on  my 
last  book,  “  To  be  or  not  to  be,”  which  had  put  me  in  bad 
humor,  as  it  ought  not,  still  just  when  I  was  most  uncomfort¬ 
able,  I  found  that  the  very  trial  brought  me  a  pleasure,  by 
giving  me  an  expression  *of  Dickens’s  unfailing  kindliness. 


424 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


He  had  heard  from  his  family  how  out  of  rorts  I  was,  and 
he  let  off  whole  fire-works  of  jokes  and  witty  words,  and  when 
that  still  did  not  make  its  way  into  my  ill-humor’s  dark  cor¬ 
ner,  he  spoke  in  earnest  so  eloquently  and  with  such  warm 
appreciation  that  I  felt  myself  uplifted,  strengthened,  and 
filled  with  a  desire  and  longing  to  deserve  such  words.  I 
looked  into  my  friend’s  beaming  eyes,  and  felt  that  I  ought  to 
thank  my  severe  critic  for  having  obtained  for  me  one  of  the 
most  delightful  moments  in  my  life. 

The  happy  days  at  Dickens’s  house  fled  all  too  quickly. 
The  last  morning  came,  but  I  was  yet,  before  I  returned  to 
Denmark,  to  see  the  apotheosis  of  Germany’s  poetic  greatness. 
I  was  invited  to  the  celebration  in  Weimar  at  the  unveiling  of 
Goethe’s,  Schiller’s,  and  Wieland’s  statues.  Early  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  Dickens  had  his  little  wagon  brought  out,  took  his  place 
as  coachman,  and  carried  me  to  Maidstone,  from  where  I  was 
to  take  the  train  to  Folkestone  ;  he  drew  for  me  a  map  of  all 
the  stations  as  a  guide.  Dickens  was  lively  and  hearty  all  the 
way,  and  I  sat  silent  and  in  poor  spirits  at  the  near  approach 
of  our  parting.  At  the  station  we  embraced  one  another,  and 
I  looked  in  his  eyes  so  full  of  feeling,  looked  perhaps  for  the 
last  time  on  one  whom  I  admired  as  an  author  and  still  more 
as  a  man.  A  grasp  of  the  hand,  and  he  was  carried  away,  and 
I  was  rushing  on  with  the  train.  “  All’s  over,  and  that  hap¬ 
pens  to  all  stories.” 

From  Maxen  near  Dresden  I  sent  this  letter  to  Charles 
Dickens  :  — 

Dear  best  of  Friends,  —  At  last  I  can  write,  and  the  de¬ 
lay  has  been  long  enough,  all  too  long  !  but  every  day,  almost 
every  hour  have  you  been  in  my  thoughts.  You  and  your 
home  are  become  as  a  part  of  my  soul’s  life,  and  how  could 
it  be  otherwise  ?  For  years  I  have  loved  and  honored  you 
through  your  writings,  but  now  I  know  you  yourself.  No  one 
of  your  friends  can  hold  more  firmly  by  you  than  I.  The 
visit  to  England,  the  stay  at  your  house,  is  a  bright  spot  in  my 
life,  therefore  did  I  stay  so  long  and  find  it  so  hard  to  say 
farewell  ;  certainly  when  we  drove  together  from  Gadshill  to 
Maidstone,  I  was  so  disconsolate  it  was  next  to  impossible 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


425 


for  me  to  carry  on  conversation  ;  I  was  almost  ready  to  cry. 
Since  then,  when  I  think  of  the  parting,  I  feel  keenly  how 
hard  it  must  have  been  for  you,  some  days  after,  to  go  with, 
your  son  Walter  on  board  his  ship,  and  to  know  that  you  were 
not  to  see  him  again  for  seven  years.  I  cannot  express  my¬ 
self,  unless  I  write  my  letter  in  Danish,  or  I  would  say  how 
happy  [  was  with  you,  —  how  thankful  I  am.  I  saw  every 
minute  that  you  were  my  friend,  and  that  you  were  glad  to 
have  me  with  you.  You  may  believe  I  value  what  that  signi¬ 
fies.  Your  wife,  too,  welcomed  me,  a  stranger,  so  cordially:  I 
can  see  that  it  could  not  have  been  so  pleasant  for  your  whole 
family  to  have  for  weeks  about  them  one  like  me  who  spoke 
English  so  poorly,  one  who  might  be  thought  to  have  fallen 
down  from  the  sky.  Yet  how  little  I  was  allowed  to  feel 
this.  Give  my  thanks  to  all.  1  Baby  ’  said  to  me  the  first 
day  I  came,  ‘  I  will  put  you  out  of  the  window,’  but  afterward 
he  said  that  he  would  ‘  put  ’  me  ‘  in  of  the  window,’  and  I 
count  his  last  words  as  those  of  the  whole  family. 

“  After  having  been  in  such  a  home,  been  so  filled  with  happi¬ 
ness  as  I  was,  of  course  Paris  could  not  be  any  stopping-place 
for  me.  I  felt  as  if  I  were  in  a  hot  hive  where  no  honey  is  to 
be  found.  The  heat  was  oppressive  ;  I  made  haste  to  get 
away,  but  by  short  days’  journeys.  Five  whole  davs  I  took  to 
reach  Frankfort  ;  not  before  the  twenty-seventh  did  I  reach 
Dresden,  where  the  Serres  entertained  me.  The  day  was  the 
birthday  of  the  master  of  the  house,  and  it  was  spent  at  the 
.  ouse  of  one  of  my  lady  friends,  the  celebrated  pianist  and 
composer,  Henselt,  who  lives  most  of  the  year  at  St.  Peters¬ 
burg,  but  in  summer  upon  her  estate  in  Silesia,  I  came  here 
to  a  merry  festival.  Yesterday  for  the  first  time  we  came  here 
.0  Serre's  place  in  Maxen.  In  the  early  morning  I  am  writing 
this  letter.  It  is  just  -as  if  I  myself  were  carrying  it  to  you.  I 
stand  in  your  room  at  Gadshill  ;  see,  as  I  did  the  first  day  I 
came,  the  roses  blooming  in  the  windows,  the  green  fields  that 
stretch  out  to  Rochester ;  I  see  the  apple-like  fragrance  of  the 
wild  rose  hedges  out  in  the  fields  where  the  children  played 
cricket.  How  much  will  happen  before  I  again  see  it  in 
reality,  if  indeed  I  ever  do  !  But,  whatever  time  may  disclose, 
my  heart  will  ever  faithful!}  and  gratefully  thank  you,  my 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


426 

great-hearted  friend.  Give  me  soon  the  pleasure  of  a  letter; 
tell  me  when  you  have  read  “  To  be  or  not  to  be,”  what  you 
think  of  it.  Forget  kindly  the  cloudy  side  of  me,  which  per¬ 
haps  our  life  together  showed  you,  and  I  will  so  live  in  good 
earnest  with  one  whom  I  love  as  a  friend  and  brother. 

“  Faithfully  yours, 

“  Hans  Christian  Andersen.” 

I  soon  received  a  very  kind  letter  from  the  noble,  good 
Dickens,  with  a  particular  greeting  from  every  one,  even  from 
the  monument  and  the  shepherd’s  dog  there.  Afterward  let¬ 
ters  came  less  frequently,  and  last  year  none  at  all.  “  All’s 
over,  and  that  happens  to  all  stories.”  , 

In  Weimar  everything  was  in  festive  brilliancy :  people 
streamed  thither  from  all  parts  of  Germany.  I  had  at  once 
the  best,  most  cozy  home  with  my  friend  the  Court  Marshal 
Beaulieu.  Several  of  Germany’s  first  dramatic  artists  were 
invited  to  take  parts  on  the  stage  where  Goethe  and  Schiller 
had  labored  and  made  their  name.  Scenes  were  given  from 
Goethe’s  “  Faust,”  second  part,  as  well  as  a  prelude  suited  to 
the  occasion  by  Dingelsted,  who  was  then  intendant  of  the 
theatre.  At  the  court  were  splendid  receptions,  princes  and 
artists  meeting  together. 

The  unveiling  of  Wieland’s  as  well  as  of  Goethe’s  and 
Schiller’s  statues,  took  place  in  delightful  sunny  weather. 
When  the  veil  fell  from  the  forms  of  these  two  masters,  I  saw 
one  of  those  accidents  which  seem  poetically  intended :  a 
white  butterfly  flew  over  Goethe’s  and  Schiller’s  heads,  as  if 
not  knowing  on  which  of  them  it  should  alight,  —  a  symbol 
of  immortality  ;  after  a  short  flight  flying  about,  it  rose  in  the 
clear  sunlight  and  vanished.  I  told  this  little  incident  to  the 
Grand  Duke,  and  to  Goethe’s  widow  and  Schiller’s  son.  I 
asked  this  last,  one  day,  if  there  was  any  truth  in  what  many 
at  Weimar  said,  that  I  bore  a  likeness  to  his  father,  and  he 
answered  that  it  was  the  case,  but  the  likeness  lay  most  in  my 
form,  bearing,  and  gait.  “  My  father,”  said  he,  “  had  a  coun¬ 
tenance  quite  different  from  yours,  and  red  hair.”  I  had  nol 
heard  this  before. 

Liszt  composed  the  music  for  the  celebration  at  the  theatie 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


427 


it  brought  out  a  storm  of  applause  and  he  was  called  out.  It 
did  not  move  me,  but  the  fault  was  mine.  It  was  like  waves 
of  dissonances  that  rise  into  harmony,  but  not  to  carry  me. 
I  felt  vexed  with  myself  that  I  could  not  be  as  the  others 
were,  and  unpleasantly  embarrassed  about  Liszt,  whom  I  hon¬ 
ored  as  an  artist,  and  looked  up  to  as  one  having  a  moving 
thought  and  human  courage.  The  next  day  I  was  invited  by 
him  to  dinner;  he  received  a  company  of  his  friends  —  all 
certainly  admirers  ;  I  felt  that  I  could  not  honorably  fall  in 
with  the  common  applause  ;  it  grieved  me,  and  I  formed  a 
hasty  resolve  to  travel  the  same  day  from  Weimar ;  but  it  is 
still  a  source  of  regret  when  I  look  back  on  it,  and  a  grief  to 
me  that  I  was  remiss  through  being  out  of  tune  myself,  and 
that  I  did  not  give  good-by  to  the  prince  of  pianists.  I  have 
never  since  met  him  who  in  his  art  belongs  to  one  of  the 
great  phenomena  of  the  day. 

The  journey  home  was  by  Hamburg.  The  cholera  was 
there,  and  I  went  on  to  Kiel,  where  I  heard  that  the  disease 
was  also  in  Denmark,  and  most  severe  in  Korsor,  where  I 
was  to  go  in  the  steamer.  The  weather  was  fair,  the  passage 
all  too  short,  and  we  reached  the  cholera  stricken  city  several 
hours  before  the  departure  of  the  train,  and  remained  in  the 
waiting-room  together  with  a  part  of  the  towns-folk,  who  were 
very  low  spirited.  In  Copenhagen  my  doctor  met  me  with 
the  inquiry  what  I  was  doing  here,  where  several  cholera 
cases  had  shown  themselves.  I  set  off  again  into  the  country, 
first  to  Ingemann,  and  from  there  to  the  hospitable  Basnos, 
but  in  the  little  place  Skjelskor  near  by  was  also  cholera  :  I 
did  not  know  it  but  felt  strangely  low-spirited.  My  mind 
immediately  recovered  its  balance,  however,  and  then  worked 
out  the  scheme  for  a  new  wonder  story  comedy,  — -  “  The  Will- 
o’-the-Wisp.”  Ingemann  thought  well  of  the  idea,  but  it  only 
got  on  paper  as  a  slight  sketch,  and  several  years  afterward 
was  given  in  quite  another  form  and  manner  as  the  wonder 
story,  —  “  The  Will-o’-the-Wisps  are  in  Town.” 

The  Director  of  the  Royal  Theatre  urged  me  to  write  a 
\>rologue  for  the  theatre's  centenary  ;  the  chief  actor  on  the 
stage  was  to  deliver  it,  but  he  had  of  late  years  found  it  very 
difficult  to  get  anything  by  heart ;  he  would  forget  and  make 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


428 

slips.  I  was  afraid  that  this  would  be  the  case  now,  and  it 
was  the  case.  With  his  splendid  resounding  voice  he  declaimed 
the  prologue,  but  made  it  so  full  of  holes  that  for  me  it  did 
not  wave  like  a  holiday  banner,  but  like  a  ragged  clout.  The 
critics  talked  about  the  artist’s  fine  delivery ;  but  that  the 
prologue  did  not  hang  together  well,  it  was  of  course  the 
poet’s  fault  and  not  the  highly  esteemed  actor’s.  The  day 
after  I  had  the  prologue  printed  that  they  might  read  it  and 
understand  it,  but  it  was  quite  “  the  day  after  the  fair.”  It 
has  long  since  passed  into  the  air,  but  Ingemann’s  letter  to 
me  remains  as  a  poetic  mark  made  over  what  was  blotted  out. 

“  Soro,  July  2,  1857. 

# 

“  A  happy  and  blessed  Christmas  and  New  Year  to  you  :  no 
bitterness  in  the  New  Year,  and  no  strain  in  the  humor  of  the 
Copenhagenish  or  outer  world’s  ephemeral  cobwebs.  Look 
at  the  milky  way ;  think  of  the  great  rich  story  of  life  through 
all  the  higher  and  higher  places  of  existence  till  the  final  last 
great  day  of  the  world,  and  let  us  thank  our  Lord  for  immortal¬ 
ity  in  that  glory  that  He  has  prepared  for  us  both  here  and  here¬ 
after  :  meanwhile  we  blow  aside  all  the  little  planet’s  cobwebs 
with  a  gay,  merry  puff  of  breath.  Poesy  is  still,  God  be 
praised,  a  better  pleasure-boat  than  all  the  boasted  balloon 
ships  in  which  virtuosos  daily  go  up  and  tumble  down,  accord¬ 
ing  as  the  fickle  and  often  mephitic  popular  breath  distends 
or  collapses  the  balloon  of  a  day.  When  you  get  fast  hold  of 
your  ‘  will-o’-the-wisp,’  let  him  also  take  and  free  you  from 
the  spider-demon  that  spins  and  twists  about  us  the  airy  cob¬ 
webs  of  a  Liliput  world!  I  provided  for  it  in  my  ‘Four 
Rubies,’  but  the  idea  did  not  get  sufficient  expression.  When 
one  becomes  old,  poetical  ideas  become  too  poor,  and  wanting 
flesh  and  blood  ;  but  one  still  cannot  be  without  these  in  this 
world. 

“  Cordial  greeting  from  my  Lucia :  some  sin  that  has  given 
her  the  toothache  and  swollen  mouth,  has  tried  to  lessen  our 
Christmas  pleasure.  There  stands,  besides,  in  our  sitting-room 
a  Christmas-tree  with  which  the  girl  and  the  gardener’s  wife 
surprised  us  on  Christmas  Eve.  From  Madame  Jerichau  J 
have  received  Jerichau’s  medallion  portrait  of  himself,  anc 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


429 

on  the  cover  of  the  case  she  has  drawn  a  pretty  Christmas 
angel.  There  is  still  no  little  friendship  and  love, in  the  world, 
and  we  were  shamefully  ungrateful  when  we  were  grumbling 
or  low-spirited.  That  you,  indeed,  are  not  at  bottom  ;  far  from 
it,  but  those  prologue  trifles  had  wrongfully  put  you  out  of  tune. 
Make  us  happy  soon  with  the  news  that  you  are  flying  freely 
about  in  the  poetic  sky  !  Your  ever  devoted 

“  Ingemann.” 


1858. 

Of  late  years  it  has  so  often  been  said  to  me  that  I  finally 
have  come  to  believe  it,  that  when  I  myself  read  my  Wonder 
Stories  they  are  set  forth  in  the  best  light.  The  greater  the 
gathering  the  better  delivery  I  am  assured  of,  and  still  I 
always  go  to  such  a  gathering  with  a  doubting,  anxious  mind. 
The  first  time  I  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  when  the 
evening  came  I  was  as  one  in  a  fever.  It  was  no  single, 
important  person  as  hearer  who  disturbed  my  mind  ;  no  !  it 
is  the  many,  the  multitude  that  make  a  mist,  as  it  were,  about 
me  and  depress  me.  And  yet  J  have  always  been  met  with 
gladness  and  loud  praise. 

There  was  formed  last  year  in  Copenhagen  a  Mechanics’ 
Association  preceding  the  one  now  existing.  Two  of  the  men 
who  showed  a  special  interest  in  it  by  giving  lectures  and 
readings  of  an  instructive  kind,  were  Professor  Dr.  Hornemann 
and  the  Editor  Bille.  They  applied  to  me  to  read  before  the 
association  some  of  my  Wonder  Stories. 

It  was  an  uncomfortable,  exciting  time  in  Copenhagen.1 
There  poured  in  far  more  people  than  there  were  places  for 
in  the  great  hall  :  the  crowd  outside  pressed  close  up  to  the 
windows  and  clamored  to  have  them  opened  :  it  was  quite 

overwhelming  to  a  nervous,  timid  soul,  but  as  soon  as  I  stood 

« 

in  the  reading-desk  my  tremor  disappeared. 

I  began  with  the  following  words,  which  at  that  time  seemed 
necessary  :  — 

“  Among  the  instructive  readings  which  are  given  at  the 
Mechanics’  Association  there  is  one  that  it  has  been  thought 

1  This  refers  probably  to  tht  ravages  of  cholera  that  had  recently 
ppeared  in  the  city.  —  Editor's  Note. 


430 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


should  not  be  omitted,  and  that  is  one  from  the  poetic,  the 
art  that  opeps  our  eyes  and  our  hearts  to  the  beautiful,  the 
true,  and  the  good. 

“  In  England,  in  the  royal  navy,  through  all  the  rigging,  small 
and  great  ropes,  there  runs  a  red  thread,  signifying  that  it 
belongs  to  the  crown  ;  through  all  men’s  lives  there  runs 
also  a  thread,  invisible  indeed,  that  shows  we  belong  to  God. 

“  To  find  this  thread  in  small  and  great,  in  our  own  life  and 
in  all  about  us,  the  poet’s  art  helps  us,  and  it  comes  in  many 
shapes.  Holberg  let  it  come  in  his  comedies,  showing  us  the 
men  of  his  time  with  their  weaknesses,  and  their  amusing  qual¬ 
ities,  and  we  can  read  much  of  these. 

“  In  the  earliest  times  the  poet’s  art  dealt  most  with  what 
are  called  Wonder  Stories  ;  the  Bible  itself  has  inclosed  truth 
and  wisdom  in  what  we  call  parables  and  allegories.  Now  we 
know  all  of  us  that  the  allegory  is  not  to  be  taken  literally  by 
the  words,  but  according  to  the  signification  that  lies  in  them, 
by  the  invisible  thread  that  runs  through  them. 

“  We  know  that  when  we  hear  the  echo  from  the  wall,  from 
the  rock,  or  the  heights,  it  is  not  the  wall,  the  rock,  and  the 
heights  that  speak,  but  a  resounding  from  ourselves  ;  and  so 
we  also  should  see  in  the  parable,  in  the  allegory,  that  we 
find  ourselves,  —  find  the  meaning,  the  wisdom,  and  the  hap¬ 
piness  we  can  get  out  of  them. 

“  So  the  poet’s  art  places  itself  by  the  side  of  Science,  and 
opens  our  eyes  for  the  beautiful,  the  true,  and  the  good  :  and 
so  we  will  now  read  here  a  few  Wonder  Stories.” 

And  I  read  and  was  followed  with  close  attention  ;  a  single 
heartfelt  burst  of  applause  was  heard.  I  was  glad  and  satis¬ 
fied  to  have  read.  Afterward  I  gave  still  a  few  more  readings, 
and  other  authors  followed  my  example. 

In  i860  was  founded  with  great  eclat  the  Mechanics’  As¬ 
sociation  that  now  exists,  where  almost  every  winter  I  have 
read  and  met  hearty  recognition  ;  several  of  our  Danish  poets 
and  writers,  as  well  as  the  most  celebrated  actors,  have  read 
their  poems  and  dramatic  works. 

At  one  of  the  yearly  celebrations  of  the  anniversary  of  the 
founding  of  the  Association,  to  which  I  was  invited,  an  en 
thusiastic  toast  was  drunk  to  that  ornament  of  the  Danish 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


431 


stage,  since  dead,  Michael  Wiehe  ;  he  was  named  as  the  first 
who  had  broken  the  ice,  the  first  who  had  brought  the  gift  of 
poesy  to  the  Mechanics’  Association,  and  when  he  had  led 
the  way,  the  rest  all  followed. 

In  the  Mechanics’  Association  of  i860,  Mr.  Wiehe  certainly 
had  been  the  first  who  read,  I  believe,  a  poem  of  Oehlen- 
schlager ;  but  two  years  before,  when  for  the  first  time  the 
working  classes  were  formed  into  an  association,  in  1858,  I 
was  the  one  who  broke  the  ice,  and  it  is  an  honor  I  will  not 
let  slip  me  ! 

In  the  Students’  Union  I  had  as  a  young  student  read  my 
first  Wonder  Story.  The  years  have  long  since  gone  by.  Now, 
in  1858,  I  read  again,  and  was  so  heartily  received,  so  kindly 
greeted,  that  certainly  if  my  fright  at  reading  before  a  great 
company  were  not  the  chief  thing,  yet  here  and  at  the  Associ¬ 
ation  I  felt  and  understood  that  I  read  before  young,  warm 
hearts  —  men  of  nature,  who  made  these  evenings  I  have 
spoken  of  as  beautiful  moments  of  festivity. 

In  the  last  year  there  was  published  at  Christmas,  or,  little 
later,  in  the  spring,  a  little  volume  of  Wonder  Stories,  on  the 
yellow  cover  of  which  was  printed  a  picture  of  the  storks  as 
they  came  flying  with  the  Spring  on  their  backs  ;  this  last 
volume  contained  for  its  longest  story,  “  The  Marsh  King’s 
Daughter.”  Ingemann  wrote  of  it :  — 

,  “  Soro,  April  10,  1858. 

“  Dear  Friend, — You  are  a  lucky  man  !  When  you  scrape 
up  stones  in  a  brook,  you  find  pearls  right  away,  and  now  you 
have  found  a  precious  stone  in  the  marsh.  It  is  a  benevolent 
fancy  that  so  holds  up  roses  to  our  noses  where  it  smells  worst 
in  the  world,  and  shows  us  royal  splendor  in  the  marsh  ;  that 
she  is  beautiful  I  have  already  heard  from  others.  It  shall 
be  my  pleasure  to  see  her  after  the  great  washing,  and  the  six 
rinsings  you  have  given  her.  I  have  so  much  affection  for 
her  elder  brothers  and  sisters,  and  so  much  confidence  in  her 
washer’s  taste,  and  fine  aesthetic  light,  that  neither  with  her 
nor  half  the  kingdom  she  surely  brings  with  her,  does  there 
stick  a  single  spatter  from  her  father’s  vhole  state.  In  our 


432 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


‘  whole  state  ’ 1  there  is  certainly  some  mud.  If  now  your 
princess  could  only  show  us  what  good  and  beautiful  thing 
can  come  out  of  such  a  kingdom.  Happiness  and  blessing 
be  on  the  new  year  of  your  life  which  you  have  begun.  It  is 
not  logical,  but  I  set  a  high  price  on  the  fact,  that  one  is  born 
as  the  condition  on  which  all  life  depends,  and  it  is  the  be¬ 
ginning  that  makes  it  worth  while  to  live.  Still  I  don’t  care 
much  for  birthdays. 

“  The  second  of  April  we  remembered  notwithstanding,  with 
regard  to  the  peaceful  second  of  April’s  hero  on  the  stork’s 
back,  which  indeed  is  the  vignette  on  your  ‘  Wonder  Stories 
and  Tales.’  The  cross  of  the  1  Dannebrogsmand  ’ 2  had 
nearly  come  that  day.  We  should  have  found  that  acknowl¬ 
edgment  good  and  proper.  Hearty  greetings  from  us  both. 

“  That  the  theatre  had  not  killed  Hauch  was  an  agreeable 
piece  of  news  to  me.  That  position  would  kill  me,  and  you, 
too,  perhaps,  although  you  indeed,  when  that  shall  be,  can 
have  practice  as  packer.  I  had  that  practice  too,  when  I  was 
Director,  but  it  took  all  my  strength  and  a  whole  year,  and  I 
have  not  yet  got  over  it.  Now  I  wish  you  a  happy  private  life, 
and  poet  life,  with  fresh  flying  Psyche-wings  that  either  fly 
over  flowers,  or  run  in  their  chariot  through  the  marsh  king¬ 
dom,  again  to  fly  over  the  world  in  sunshine  and  summer  air. 

“  Your  devoted  friend,  “  Ingemann.” 

In  June  I  was  already  off  on  my  travels,  on  a  visit  to  the 
Serres  and  with  some  friends  in  Bremen.  The  pleasure  of 
this  travelling-life  was  soon  ended.  I  happened  to  hear 
home  news  that  made  me  tremble,  filled  me  with  sorrow, 
and  which  always  comes  back  to  me  as  painful  and  fearful, 
when  friends  from  America  invite  me  to  their  home,  the  other 
side  of  the  world’s  sea.  I  have,  in  the  first  pages  of  “  The 
Story  of  my  Life,”  spoken  of  Admiral  Wulff’s  house  in  Copen¬ 
hagen,  his  wife  and  children,  of  the  oldest  daughter,  Henriette, 
vho  always  in  dark  days  and  bright  took  so  constant  an  in- 

1  There  was  a  party  in  Denmark  then  whose  political  watch-word  was, 

Whole  State”  (Heel-stat),  referring  to  the  union  of  Sieswick-Holsteii 

and  Denmark.  —  Editor's  note . 

2  An  order  of  knighthood. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


433 


terest  in  all  that  concerned  me.  After  her  parents  ditd  she 
lived  with  her  youngest  brother,  Christian  Wulff,  lieutenant  in 
the  navy.  Never  has  any  one  seen  a  more  affectionate  and 
devoted  brother.  For  her  it  was  a  necessity,  one  may  say  a 
matter  of  health,  to  travel,  and  she  loved  the  sea  passionately ; 
on  several  great  journeys  she  accompanied  her  brother,  visited 
Italy  with  him,  and  went  with  him  to  the  West  Indies  and 
America ;  on  the,  for  her,  last  great  voyage,  they  both  were 
aboard  a  vessel  where  there  was  infection  of  yellow  fever. 
The  brother  was  seized,  and  she,  the  weak  girl,  was  his  nurse ; 
sat  by  the  fever  bed,  wiped  with  her  handkerchief  his  hot, 
clammy  forehead,  and  wiped  her  own  eyes  with  the  same ;  but 
she  became  strong  who  was  weak  before  the  sickness,  while 
her  brother  sank  under  it  and  was  buried. 

Overwhelmed  with  grief  she  found  a  dear  home  at  Eagle- 
wood  near  New  York,  with  the  generous  Marcus  Spring  and 
his  excellent  wife  Rebecca,  whose  acquaintance  had  been 
made  by  the  authoress  Fredrika  Bremer. 

A  year  after  Henriette  Wulff  came  back  again  to  Denmark  ; 
we  saw  one  another  nearly  every  day.  The  sense  of  her  broth¬ 
er’s  loss  was  in  many  respects  excessive.  Her  thoughts  flew 
often  to  the  land  where  her  brother’s  dust  rested  ;  she  longed 
to  go  thither  once  more,  and  was  uneasy  in  the  summer  until 
the  journey.  In  the  month  of  September  she  went  by  the 
Hamburg  steamer  Austria  ;  from  England  her  last  letter  came 
to  her  sister :  she  said  that  there  were  a  great  many  on  board, 
but  no  one  toward  whom  she  felt  herself  drawn,  yet  when  they 
came  to  England  she  felt  such  a  great  repugnance  to  the  jour¬ 
ney  that  she  was  almost  resolved  to  go  back,  but  shamed  her¬ 
self  out  of  her  weakness  and  remained. 

Not  long  after  we  read  the  news  that  the  steamer  Austria 
was  burned  on  the  Atlantic.  I  was  overwhelmed  ;  her  sister 
and  elder  brother,  her  relations  and  friends  were  in  an  agony 
of  doubt.  Soon  there  came  descriptions  of  the  fearful  scenes 
in  the  sudden  disaster  from  those  who  only  were  saved  :  but 
who  were  those  ?  Was  she,  with  her  little  feeble  form,  among 
them  ?  No  certain  intelligence  came  that  she  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  ocean.  If  grief  could  find  place  in  words,  then  surely 

it  could  in  what  I  wrote  in  the  first  moment  of  sorrow  :  — 

2* 


434 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


HENRIETTE  WULFF : 

DIED  ON  THE  STEAMER  AUSTRIA,  SEPTEMBER  13,  1858. 

In  the  burning  ship,  on  the  roHing  wave. 

In  horrors  we  cannot  bear  to  hear, 

Thou  hast  suffered  and  died  and  found  thy  grave, 

But  the  cry  of  thy  death  never  comes  to  our  ear. 

Thou  bold  and  hardy  soul  that  dwelt  apart 
In  feeble  body  ;  little  seemed  the  souls  anigh, 

And  never  chill  took  hold  of  thy  warm  heart  — 

Here  few  there  were  that  knew  thee :  many  more  on  high. 

Thou  wert  my  sister,  compassionate  and  strong, 

Uplifting  still  my  soul  when  trampled  in  the  dust ; 

Thou  knewest  me  —  to  thee  it  doth  belong 
That  often  I  sank  not,  when  sink  I  felt  I  must. 

False  things  and  empty,  jinglings  of  small  bells 

Are  guarded  by  the  noisy  crowd  that  float  adown  the  stream ; 

Thy  course  thou  didst  not  change,  —  and  so  the  sea-foam  went. 
And  so  earth’s  life  is  spent,  quick  ended  as  a  dream. 

Farewell,  my  friend  from  childhood’s  days  ! 

To  me  thou  hast  been  more  than  I  was  worth  ; 

Now  is  thy  conflict  o’er,  thou  seest  thy  brother’s  face, 

With  whom  was  ever  joined  all  that  thou  sought  on  earth. 

Thy  tomb  was  the  sea,  the  wild  rolling  sea  ; 

Our  hearts  bear  the  chiseled  words  of  thy  name  ; 

Thy  soul  is  in  heaven,  and  our  Lord  gives  to  thee 
A  manifold  bliss  for  the  suffering  that  came. 

In  the  burning  ship,  on  the  rolling  wave, 

In  horrors  we  cannot  bear  to  hear, 

Thou  hast  suffered,  hast  died,  and  found  thy  grave, 

But  the  cry  of  thy  death  never  comes  to  our  ear. 

My  thoughts,  night  and  day,  were  filled  with  this  matter.  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else,  and  many  a  night  in  the  time  of  our 
uncertainty  I  prayed  God  in  my  heart,  if  it  be  possible  that 
there  is  connection  between  the  world  of  spirits  and  the  world 
of  men,  then  grant  me  a  glimpse,  some  least  sign  from  it,  if 
inly  a  dream  of  her  ;  but  notwithstanding  my  waking  thoughts 
were  wholly  occupied  with  the  friend  of  my  youth,  when  sleep 
with  dreaming  came,  never  did  anything  manifest  itself  or  stii 


THE  STOR  Y  OF  MY  LIFE. 


435 

my  fancy  that  could  seem  to  be  such  a  communion.  The  con¬ 
stant  thinking  of  this  event  so  affected  me  that  one  day  going 
out  into  the  street  the  houses  suddenly  appeared  to  me  as  mon¬ 
ster  waves  that  rolled  against  one  another ;  I  saw  the  mo¬ 
tion,  but  at  the  same  moment  I  was  to  that  degree  startled  at 
myself,  that  with  all  the  force  of  my  will  I  burst  this  fixed 
thought  upon  one  and  the  same  thing;  I  felt  that  it  belorged 
to  insanity. 

There  came  a  sudden  peace  in  my  mind,  a  trust  in  God,  and 
sorrow  spent  itself  in  its  lamentation.  Ingemann  wrote  to 
me  :  — 

“  The  greater  has  been  that  soul  in  the  small  weak  body,  the 
easier  flight  it  had  from  the  burning  to  the  quenching  element, 
and  the  freer  flight  to  that  great  spirit  world  wherein  we  first 
rightly  cjraw  breath.  But  I  need  not  paint  for  the  poet  who 
wrote  £The  Dying  Child  ’  and  ‘  To  be  and  not  to  be,’  the  light 
side  itself  in  the  picture  of  the  world’s  ruin  where  in  a  moment 
we  are  overwhelmed  as  by  the  most  terrible  thing.  That  you 
have  yourself  surely  already  done,  and  have  at  one  and  the 
same  time  given  expression  to  the  pain  and  the  love  in  a  fare¬ 
well  song  to  the  released  spirit;  so  the  affliction  will  have  lost 
its  sting  when  this  little  letter  reaches  you.  Both  my  Lucie  and 
I  have  felt  sincerely  and  shared  your  grief  by  the  thought  and 
the  picture  of  that  fearful  event ;  but  we  know,  God  be  praised, 
where  and  how  you  will  seek  and  find,  not  trust  only,  but  se¬ 
rene  joy  in  what  the  highest  love  only  still  grants  us.  God 
bless  you  and  give  you  strength,  not  only  to  find  faith  for  your¬ 
self  but  to  impart  it  to  her  sister.” 

Miss  Wulff’s  eldest  brother,  Peter  Wulff,  a  captain  in  the 
navy,  wrote  to  one  of  the  officers  of  the  ship  who  was  saved, 
and  all  that  he  learned  was  that  Tette  Wulff  was  seen  at  the 
breakfast-table  ;  after  that,  she  used  always,  as  was  known,  to 
go  to  her  state-room  and  come  from  it  again  only  to  the  din¬ 
ner-table.  It  was  between  these  hours  that  the  disaster  oc¬ 
curred  :  the  ship  was  being  fumigated  by  burning  tar.  The  tar 
barrel  upset,  and  the  burning  stuff  gave  out  smoke  and  flame 
which  soon  enveloped  the  whole  ship.  It  was  presumed  that 
she  was  suffocated  by  the  smoke  and  died  in  her  state-room, 
which  is  now  her  tomb  at  the  bottom  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean. 


436 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 

1859. 

Hartmann’s  melodious  “  Little  Christine,”  which  had  been 
caught  up  in  the  people’s  singing,  and  for  which  I  had  written 
the  text,  was  after  a  long,  undeserved  rest  again  brought  on  the 
stage  and  received  a  great  deal  of  attention  :  my  text  even  was 
praised  ;  the  critics  in  “  The  Father-land  ”  called  it  a  true  poem, 
an  inspiration  :  “  ’une  vere  de  l’ideal  au  milieu  des  tristes  real- 
ites  de  la  vie.’  Beautiful  lovely  pictures  glided  past,  speak¬ 
ing  so  naturallv  and  innocently  to  one,  and  the  working  out  of 
the  language  is  so  fanciful  and  plastic,  that  one  cannot  read 
the  poem  without  being  moved.  There  is  a  world  written  of  in 
these  pages,  such  as  perhaps  has  never  been  and  perhaps  never 
will  be  ;  but  that  matters  not,  since  it  has  beauty  in  itself  and 
remains  in  our  heart  as  something  we  long  for.” 

So  kind  an  expression  was  granted  to  my  poem,  and  Hart¬ 
mann’s  uncommonly  beautiful  music  as  well  was  praised  with 
greatest  appreciation. 

Later  in  the  spring  was  published  a  new  collection  of 
wonder  stories  and  tales.  Among  these  were  “  The  Wind 
tells  the  Story  of  Waldemar  Daae  and  his  Daughters.”  This 
was  dedicated  to  my  friend  the  composer  Hartmann. 

The  trees  were  putting  out  their  leaves.  The  weather  was 
warm  and  lovely;  King  Frederick  VII.  was  staying  in  the  old 
splendid  Frederick  Castle,  in  the  beautiful  woody  country,  and 
sent  for  me  to  hear  me  read  the  new  production.  I  was  wel¬ 
comed  with  the  open  hearty  candor  which  the  King  always 
showed,  and  spent  two  agreeable  days  in  Christian  IV. ’s  proud 
residence,  which  has  had  life  given  it  in  Hauch’s  poem, 
<4  Frederick  Castle.” 

I  saw  all  the  splendor  and  the  old  glory,  walked  in  these 
halls,  sat  at  the  King’s  table,  which  on  the  beautiful  sunny  day 
was  spread  below  in  the  garden.  When  the  tables  were  removed 
a  sail  was  taken  on  the  lake  round  about  the  castle,  and  out 
here  in  the  open  air  the  King  wanted  me  to  read  what  the 
wind  told  of  Waldemar  Daae  and  his  daughters. 

His  majesty  with  his  consort,  the  Countess  Danner,  took 
seats  in  the  King’s  boat,  where  I  too  had  a  place  :  a  few  othei 
boats  with  other  guests  followed.  We  glided  over  the  blue 


437 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFi . 

water  wherein  the  fiery  sky  at  sunset  was  mirrored.  And  I 
read  the  story  of  how  riches  and  happiness  fled  away,  read 
the  whistling  of  the  wind  “  hu-u-ud  away  with  you  !  ”  There 
was  a  moment’s  silence  as  I  ended  the  reading  ;  I  myself  felt 
strangely  mournful,  and  one  will  understand  that  the  recollec¬ 
tion  of  these  moments  in  the  royal  boat  where  the  sea,  the 
air,  and  the  castle  were  beaming  with  delight,  came  vividly 
to  my  thought  when  in  the  year  following  the  sad  tidings 
came  that  Frederick  Castle  was  in  flames. — The  summer 
called  me  to  Jutland,  the  most  picturesque  part  of  Denmark. 
The  recollection  is  preserved  in  “  A  Story  from  the  Sand 
Hills,”  and  a  description  of  Skagen. 

State  Councilor  Tang,  proprietor  of  the  old  North  Wosborg, 
where  once  the  Knight  Bugge’s  home  stood,  near  Nyssum 
Fjord,  had  invited  me  to  his  house  :  a  picture  of  the  place, 
the  building,  and  the  people  there  is  preserved  in  a  letter  to 
Ingemann :  — 

“  On  Monday  I  journeyed  from  Silkeborg  westward.  I 
thought  I  was  going  to  a  barren,  almost  uninhabited  country, 
and  I  find  everywhere  cultivated  fields,  and  a  pretty  garden 
up  at  the  minister’s  house,  where  elder-trees  and  roses  bloom  ; 
there  are  many  inhabitants  here,  and  a  noble  people  too. 
North  Wosborg  is  a  very  old  place,  with  deep  moats  and  high 
ramparts  close  up  to  the  very  windows  ;  the  sheltering  thicket 
round  about  the  garden  has  been  clipped  by  the  western 
storms  as  if  it  had  been  under  the  gardener’s  shears.  The 
chapel  of  the  place  is  turned  into  a  guest  chamber.  Here  I 
sleep.  A  white  lady  shows  herself  in  the  place,  but  she  has 
not  yet  visited  me  :  she  knows  well  that  I  like  jokes  but  not 
ghosts.  On  Wednesday,  the  6th  July,  we  celebrated  here  on 
the  place  the  battle  of  Fredericia  ; 1  six  peasants  who  had  been 
engaged  in  it  were  invited  ;  there  was  sport,  drinking,  and 
speech-making,  the  Dannebrog  waved,  and  when  I  was  asked 
to  read  a  Wonder  Story,  I  read  ‘  Holger  the  Dane.’  State 
Councilor  Tang  has  shown  great  kindness  to  the  peasantry, 
and  we  have  visited  among  them.  What  a  rich  and  pretty 
place  it  is  here  !  The  kitchens  look  as  if  they  were  baby 
1  In  1848,  in  the  firs*  war  with  Prussia. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


438 

houses,  and  the  whole  ceiling  was  hidden  in  a  mosaic  of  hams 
and  sausages.  The  good  people  overwhelmed  me  with  cakes 
preserves,  and  drinks.  They  presented  me  with  schnapps  and 
several  kinds  of  wine,  Russian  tea,  and  liquors,  and  when  of 
course  I  could  only  sip  of  all  the  abundance  they  came  with 
chocolate.  ‘  That  surely  I  could  drink !  ’  said  they,  and 
then  they  brought  their  old  beer  after  that  —  they  meant  well. 

“Yesterday  we  drove  to  Huusby  sand  hills  near  the  Western 
Sea,  three  miles  from  here.  We  were  several  carriage  loads, 
all  with  the  Dannebrog  flag ;  we  planted  this  on  the  sand  hills  ; 
a  tent  was  pitched ;  the  sea  rolled,  and  we  sang  patriotic 
songs.  About  two  gunshots  from  the  sand  hills  lies  Huusby 
parsonage,  with  large  pleasant  rooms,  a  good  library,  and  your 
portrait.  In  the  garden  large  trees  are  growing,  and  there 
is  a  hedge  of  roses.  But  how  sharply  the  wind  blew  as  we 
drove  home  in  the  evening  ;  it  cracked  my  lips  and  rasped 
my  face.  Yesterday  there  was  a  large  company  at  North 
Wosborg  on  my  account ;  there  were  more  than  a  hundred 
present,  most  from  the  peasantry  :  we  drank  tea  in  the  garden, 
and  afterward  sat  far  into  the  night  around  the  table  in  the 
great  hall,  singing  and  talking.  It  is  a  sturdy  people,  this 
peasantry,  with  their  culture  and  their  eagerness  for  knowledge 
and  wisdom.  They  had  a  great  desire  here  at  the  westward 
to  have  a  railway:  it  will  soon  come.  The  country  itself  was 
once  a  grain  and  woodland  country  I  am  sure.  But  then  the 
romantic  heather  grown  fields  will  be  gone  with  their  loneli¬ 
ness,  and  their  will-o’-the-wisp,  and  all  the  glory  of  the  old 
times.  Many  legends  have  I  heard  over  here  ;  several  refer 
to  North  Wosborg.  There  in  the  cellar  it  is  that  the  gipsy 
woman,  Long  Margethe  sat.  She  had  torn  the  foetus  from  the 
wombs  of  five  pregnant  women  to  eat  the  warm  heart  of  the 
child,  and  thought  that  only  when  she  had  eaten  the  seventh 
would  she  make  herself  invisible.  To-dav  the  wind  howls  as  if  it 

j 

were  autumn,  and  the  sea  listens.  Give  my  warm  greetings  to 
your  wife.  Your  ever  devoted, 

“  H.  C.  Andersen. 

“North  Wosborg,  July  11,  1859.” 

It  was  a  charming  stay  here,  and  not  so  very  shoil  either 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


439 


At  my  departure  the  whole  family  accompanied  me  to  Lemvig. 
Here,  near  the  Liim  Fjord,  is  Hamlet’s  grave,  not  Elsinor, 
where  Shakespeare  has  placed  his  great  dramatic  poem.  “  Am- 
let’s  grave,”  says  the  West  Jutlander.  A  solitary  shepherd  sits 
here  frequently  on  the  height,  and  blows  his  monotonous 
melody  on  the  little  flute  he  has  fashioned  out  of  an  elder 
bough  or  a  sheep’s  bone. 

We  reached  Lemvig  and  put  up  at  the  inn  :  I  soon  saw 
the  Dannebrog  thrust  out  from  the  roof,  and  a  little  after  at  the 
opposite  neighbor’s  appeared  a  Dannebrog’s  flag. 

“  Is  there  a  celebration  going  on  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  It  is  in  honor  of  you,”  said  State  Councilor  Tang.  We 
went  together  to  see  the  town  :  kind  eyes  welcomed  me,  and 
from  several  houses  the  flags  waved.  I  could  not  really 
believe  that  this  was  on  my  account,  but  when  the  next  day 
in  the  early  morning  hour  I  came  to  the  steamboat,  I  was 
made  to  understand  that  I  had  friends  in  Lemvig,  from  great 
people  to  small. 

In  the  crowd  of  people  there  was  a  little  boy  well  wrapped 
up.  “  Poor  little  fellow  !  ”  said  I,  “  up  so  early  to  go  by  the 
steamboat !  ” 

“  That  shall  he  not,”  answered  the  mother  ;  “  he  has  had  no 
rest  or  sleep,  for  I  promised  him  he  should  come  here  in  the 
morning  to  see  Andersen  set  off :  he  knows  all  his  Wonder 
Stories.” 

I  kissed  the  little  boy,  and  said  :  “  Go  home  and  to  bed, 
my  little  friend  ;  good-by,  good-by  !  I  was  as  pleased  as  a 
child.  I  was  warmed  thereby  and  not  frozen,  like  the  little 
fellow  in  the  cold,  fresh,  western  morning  on  this  coast.  The 
steamer  glided  through  Ottesund,  where  Germany’s  kings 
once  planted  its  colors  and  willed  that  what  was  Danish 
should  die.  We  came  to  Thisted,  the  witch-possessed  town 
that  Holberg  tells  us  of. 

We  were  by  the  landing-jetty ;  I  sat  in  the  cabin ;  the 
steam  was  sissing  and  whistling,  when  one  came  and  called 
me  upon  the  deck.  Friends  of  my  poetry  stood  at  the  jetty 
to  give  me  a  ringing  hurra  !  Later  in  the  day  I  came  to  Aal¬ 
borg  :  bright  eyes  welcomed  me  and  I  felt  fiiendly  grasps 
of  the  hand.  My  friend  from  student  days,  Kammerherre 


440 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Dahlstrom,  who  married  Orsted’s  lovely  daughtei  Sophie, 
took  me  to  his  home,  the  old  Aalborg  house. 

Anders  Sando  Orsted,  brother  to  the  discoverer  of  electro¬ 
magnetism,  was  here  on  a  visit.  He  is  a  jurist  of  first  rankj 
and  an  influential  statesman.  As  we  sat  after  dinner  in  the 
twilight,  the  servants  announced  that  there  were  a  great  many 
people  pouring  into  the  place,  and  soon  a  deputation  came 
into  the  room.  The  Aalborg  Singing  Club  wished  to  give  me 
a  greeting  song.  I  felt  embarrassed  that  they  should  honor 
me  and  not  Orsted.  I  could  not  stand  by  the  open  windows 
where  he  a  few  years  since  had  stood  and  received  a  similar 
greeting.  I  went  out  into  the  place  to  the  singers ;  the  song 
began,  and  I  pressed  warmly  the  hands  of  as  many  as  I  could, 
with  gladness  and  thankfulness.  It  was  the  first  serenade  at 
home.  Swedish  students  had  before,  on  my  first  visit  in 
Lund,  1840,  given  me  such  a  one. 

From  Aalborg  I  kept  on  my  journey  by  Skagen,  Denmark’s 
northernmost  point,  where  the  North  Sea  and  East  Sea  meet. 
The  old  Borglum  monastery,  where  once  the  might  of  the 
Church  gave  more  council  than  the  King  himself  in  his  own 
kingdom,  is  now  a  manor-house.  The  proprietaire  Rotboll  is 
its  owner.  I  had  a  friendly  invitation  from  him  to  stay  a 
while  to  see  the  country  there,  and  perhaps  one  of  the  West¬ 
ern  Sea’s  storms.  I  have  in  my  historical  narrative,  “  The 
Bishop  of  Borglum  and  his  Kinsman,”  given  a  picture  of  the 
place,  as  follows  :  — 

“  We  are  now  in  Jutland,  near  the  Wild  Marsh  ;  we  can  hear 
the  roar  of  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  rolling  hard  by  ;  in  front  of  us 
rises  a  great  sand  hill,  and  we  are  driving  toward  it,  slowly 
driving  through  the  deep  sand.  An  old,  large,  rambling  build¬ 
ing  crowns  this  sand  hill :  it  is  Borglum  Monastery  ;  the  larg¬ 
est  wing  is  the  church.  It  is  late  evening  by  the  time  we 
have  ascended  the  hill,  but  the  air  is  clear,  the  nights  are 
bright,  and  we  can  still  enjoy  a  prospect  far  and  wide,  over 
meadow  and  moor  as  far  as  Aalborg  Fjord,  over  field  and 
heath,  till  they  are  bounded  by  the  dark-blue  ocean. 

“  We  are  on  the  hill,  we  drive  on  through  barn  and  shed 
then  turn  round  and  pass  through  the  gates,  on  toward  the 
pld  castle-court,  where  lime  trees  stand  in  a  row  along  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  44  J 

walls  ;  here  they  get  shelter  from  wind  and  weather,  they 
thrive,  and  their  leafy  branches  almost  hide  the  windows. 

“  We  ascend  the  stone  winding-staircase,  we  tread  the  long 
corridors,  under  a  ceiling  of  wood-work  ;  the  wind  whistles 
round  us  with  such  strange,  wild  notes,  both  within  and  with¬ 
out  the  building,  and  we  begin  to  tell  each  other  tales  of  the 
past  —  such  tales  as  one  remembers  when  fefeling  half-fright¬ 
ened.  The  forms  of  murdered  men  seem  to  our  fancy  to 
glide  silently  past  us  ;  the  wild  wind,  as  it  rushes  through  the 
church,  still  seems  to  sing  mass  for  their  souls ;  the  mind  is 
thrown  back  into  the  days  of  old,  pictures  them,  lives  in  them.” 

Then  follows  the  narrative,  which  in  its  historic  truth  puts 
in  its  right  light  our  age  over  that  sung  by  poets,  the  hap¬ 
pily  vanished  Middle  Ages. 

“  Borglum  is  haunted  !  ”  had  been  said  to  me  at  Aalborg. 
“  In  a  certain  room  there  is  an  apparition  of  dead  monks.” 
One  is  assured  that  the  Bishop  of  the  Diocese  himself  had 
seen  them.  I  do  not  venture  to  deny  the  possibility  of  inter¬ 
course  between  the  world  of  spirit  and  of  sense,  but  I  do  not 
believe  in  it  with  certainty.  Our  existence,  the  world  in  and 
about  us,  are  all  full  of  wonder,  but  we  are  so  used  to  it  that 
we  speak  of  it  as  “  natural  all  is  kept  and  controlled  by  the 
great  laws  of  nature,  the  laws  of  reason,  laws  that  lie  in  God’s 
might,  wisdom,  and  goodness,  and  I  do  not  believe  in  any 
departure  from  them. 

After  the  first  night  I  had  slept  at  Borglum  monastery,  I 
could  not  forbear  asking  the  master  of  the  house  and  his 
wife  at  the  breakfast-table,  in  what  apartment  the  Bishop  had 
slept,  and  been  visited  by  the  spirits.  I  was  asked  if  I  had 
taken  the*alarm  at  anything  in  my  chamber,  and  if  the  dead 
monks  had  shown  themselves  to  me.  The  first  thing  I  did 
now  was  to  go  and  make  thorough  search  from  floor  to 
ceiling,  —  yes,  I  went  out  into  the  place,  examined  care¬ 
fully  all  the  surroundings,  climbed  up  to  the  windows  to  dis¬ 
cover  if  the  place  was  adapted  to  the  getting  up  of  ghost 
scenes.  I  did  not  know  but  somebody  here,  as  in  another 
country-house  happened  in  my  early  youth,  might  entertain 
himself  with  contriving  some  ghostly  night  scenes.  But  I 
discovered  nothing,  and  slept  at  night,  and  several  nights 
afterward,  ir  peace  and  safety. 


442 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


One  evening  I  went  to  bed  earlier  than  usual  and  awoke 
at  midnight  with  a  strange  cold  shiver  running  through  me  : 
I  felt  disagreeably,  and  thought  of  the  ghosts  they  had  talked 
about,  but  said  to  myself  how  foolish  such  fright  was,  and 
for  what  reason  should  white  monks  show  themselves  to  me. 
Had  I  not,  when  I  was  still  living  in  ignorance  of  the  death 
of  Henriette  Wulff,  besought  God  earnestly  that  he  would 
grant  me,  if  a  glimpse  only  were  possible,  to  receive  some  sign 
of  sight  or  hearing  from  the  other  world  that  she  was  among 
the  departed;  but  nothing  showed  itself ;  I  perceived  nothing. 

These  thoughts  raised  me  from  my  disturbed  state,  but  at 
the  same  moment  I  saw  in  the  farthest  and  darkest  part  of 
the  room  a  misty  shape  like  a  man.  I  looked  and  looked, 
and  it  went  through  me  like  ice  ;  it  was  not  to  be  endured.  I 
was  divided  between  fright  and  a  necessity  to  know  and  under¬ 
stand  it  all :  I  sprang  out  of  bed,  rushed  at  the  misty  shape, 
and  saw  now  when  near  by  that  it  was  the  polished,  varnished 
door,  where  three  projecting  parts  receiving  light  from  a  mir¬ 
ror  that  through  the  window  got  light  from  the  bright  summer 
night,  formed  something  like  a  man’s  shape.  That  was  the 
ghost  I  saw  at  Borglum. 

Since  that  I  have  come  to  have  a  share  in  a  couple  of 
ghost  stories,  and  this  will  be  the  best  place  to  record  them. 

It  was  a  year  afterward  I  was  in  another  old  country-house. 
I  was  going  in  broad  daylight  through  one  of  the  great  halls, 
and  suddenly  I  heard  a  loud  ringing  as  of  a  dinner-bell ;  the 
sound  came  from  the  opposite  wing  of  the  house  where  J 
knew  the  apartments  were  not  occupied.  I  asked  the  mistress 
of  the  house  what  bell  it  was  that  I  heard.  She  looked 
earnestly  at  me.  • 

“  You  have  heard  it  too  ?  ”  said  she,  “  and  heard  it  now  in 
broad  day and  she  told  me  that  was  often  heard,  especially 
late  in  the  evening  when  they  were  going  to  sleep  ;  yes,  that 
the  sound  then  was  so  loud  that  it  could  be  heard  by  folks  down 
in  the  cellar. 

“  Let  us  then  look  into  it,”  said  I.  We  went  through  the 
hall  where  I  had  heard  the  mysterious  bell  and  met  the  mas 
ter  of  the  house  and  the  clergyman  of  the  place.  I  told  about 
the  sounding  of  the  bell  and  protested  as  I  went  up  to  the 


THE  S TOR  It  vF  MY  LIFE. 


443 


window  that  “  it  was  no  ghost ;  ”  and  while  the  words  were 
spoken,  the  bell  rang  again  still  louder.  At  that  I  felt  a 
shiver  down  my  back,  and  said  not  quite  so  loud,  “  I  don’t 
deny  it,  but  I  don’t  believe  in  it.” 

Before  we  left  the  hall  the  bell  rang  once  again,  but  at  (he 
same  moment  my  eye  fell  accidentally  on  the  great  chandelier 
under  the  ceiling.  I  saw  that  the  many  small  glass  pendants 
were  in  motion :  I  seized  a  stool,  stood  upon  it  with  my  head 
against  the  chandelier. 

“Go  quickly  and  heavily  over  the  floor  here,”  I  bade  them ; 
they  did  so,  and  now  we  heard  all  the  loud  bell  sounds  that 
had  been  ringing  as  if  far  away,  and  so  the  ghost  was  found 
out.  An  old  clergyman’s  widow  who  heard  about  it,  said  after¬ 
ward  to  me :  — 

“  That  bell  was  so  interesting.  How  could  you,  w7ho  are  a 
poet,  bear  to  destroy  it,  and  for  nothing  at  all  ?  ” 

Still  another  ghost  story  —  the  last.  I  was  at  Copenhagen. 
I  woke  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  saw  before  me  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed  placed  on  the  stove  a  chalk-white  bust 
which  I  had  not  before  noticed.  “  Surely  it  is  a  present,” 
thought  I.  “  Who  could  have  given  it  ?  ”  I  rose  up  in  bed, 
and  stared  at  the  white  shape,  which  at  the  same  moment  van¬ 
ished.  I  shuddered,  but  got  up,  lighted  the  candle  and  saw 
by  the  clock  that  the  hour  was  just  one.  At  the  same  mo¬ 
ment  I  heard  the  watchman  call  out  the  hour. 

I  wrote  out  the  little  incident  and  lay  down  again,  but  I 
could  not  get  any  rest,  when  it  entered  my  head  :  “It  must 
be  the  light  of  the  moon  that  shines  through  the  window  upon 
the  white  wall.”  I  again  got  up  and  looked  out ;  the  air  was 
clear,  the  new  moon  must  also  have  been  long  gone,  all  the 
street  lamps  were  extinguished,  nor  could  the  light  from  one 
of  them  possibly  have  been  seen. 

The  next  morning  I  made  search  in  the  room  and  looked 
cut  over  the  street ;  over  at  the  opposite  neighbor’s  was  a  lamp. 
The  light  from  it  could,  with  the  half  raised  curtain  and  a  sail 
in  a  vessel  on  the  canal,  form  on  the  wall  the  shape  of  a  human 
head.  I  w;ent  therefore  when  it  w7as  evening  into  the  street 
wild  asked  the  watchman  a,*;  what  time  he  put  out  the  lamp. 

“At  one  o’clock/'*  said  he  ;  “just  before  I  call  the  hour.”  It 


444 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


was  tLe  reflection  on  the  wall  that  I  had  seen  and  stared  a:  ; 
>he  watchman  had  at  the  same  moment  put  out  the  light  and 
'  he  ghost. 

But  to  return  to  Borglum  monastery,  where  more  than  one 
•elated  nocturnal  sights  which  I  had  not  the  fortune  to  see. 
As  soon  as  I  was  on  my  way  home  going  through  Aalborg,  1 
had  to  tell  of  the  ghost  and  talk  with  the  reverend  gentleman 
who  had  seen  the  white  monkish  shapes.  I  undertook  to  dis¬ 
cover  whether  the  sight  of  these  did  not  lie  in  some  fault  of 
the  eyes,  and  he  answered  seriously  :  “  It  may  be  that  there  is 
something  amiss  in  yours  that  you  cannot  see  such  !  ” 

Ten  ot  twelve  days  were  spent  at  Borglum,  and  during  these 
I  -visited  the  little  fishing  town  Lokken  where  there  are  quick¬ 
sands  in  the  streets  quite  up  to  several  houses,  but  that  I 
could  make  out  to  see  still  more  effectively,  they  said,  when  1 
got  to  Skagen.  The  road  thence  led  over  Hjorring ;  I 
reached  it  tired  enough  at  evening,  and  was  ready  to  go 
straight  to  bed  ;  but  the  landlord  in  the  inn  told  me  in  con¬ 
fidence  that  I  was  to  receive  a  visit  in  the  evening,  that  sev¬ 
eral  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  coming  to  call  upon  me,  and  . 
the  garden  was  to  be  illuminated. 

Later  in  the  evening  there  came  indeed  a  deputation ;  I  was 
taken  out  into  the  garden,  where  I  was  received  with  a  pretty 
song.  Provost  Djorup  gave  me  a  cordial  address  of  welcome  ; 
it  was  an  evening  full  of  enjoyment,  the  stars  twinkled  clearly, 
and  I  felt  myself  happy  indeed. 

In  Fladstrand,  also,  where  the  railroad  to  Skagen  begins,  I 
found  a  cozy  home  with  friends  who  sought  to  make  my  stay 
and  journey  as  agreeable  as  possible.  They  looked  out  to 
get  for  me  a  steady  driver  who  could  drive  me  along  the  sea 
beach,  where  the  surf  was  rolling.  He  was  a  well-to-do,  ex¬ 
cellent  countryman,  who  knew  well  where  there  was  safe 
ground  and  where  the  treacherous  quicksands  were. 

They  had  shown  him  before  my  portrait,  and  said,  “  That  is 
a  great  poet !  ”  and  the  countryman  laughed  a  little  and  said, 

“  No,  it  »s  a  great  lion.”  He  would  not  enter  into  conversa¬ 
tion  at  all  with  me  on  the  way,  nor  tell  me  anything,  but  ha 
laughed  judiciously  at  what  I  said  to  him.  He  drove  me  well, 
however ;  he  was  hospitable  too,  and  I  did  not  get  leave  to  gc 


7  TIE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  445 

irom  his  place  until  I  had  been  well  treated  with  roast  chickens, 
pancakes,  wine,  and  mead. 

We  drove  over  pasture-land,  heath,  and  moor-land  ;  we  drove 
on  the  beach  over  the  hard,  burning  sand.  We  came  soon  to 
the  sand  hills  that  lay  like  great  snow  drifts  in  winter-time. 
The  shore  was  nearly  covered  with  quivering,  reddish-brown 
medusae,  large  shells,  and  round,  smooth  pebbles.  Wreck 
after  wreck  lay  there  ;  we  drove  right  through  what  was  once 
a  great  three-master.  Screaming  sea-fowl  circled  above  us. 
The  tower  of  St.  Laurentius’  Church,  half  hidden  in  the  flying 
sand,  was  seen,  and  there  was  the  town  of  Skagen.  It  is 
formed  of  three  villages,  and  the  oldest  part  lies  half  a  mile 
from  the  other  two.  It  was  to  this  that  we  drove. 

The  streets  here  are  shifting  •  they  are  marked  also  by  a 
cable  stretched  from  pole  to  pole,  just  as  the  quicksands  may 
determine.  Here  is  a  house  half  buried  by  a  pile  of  sand, 
there  another  ;  here  a  dark,  tarred,  wooden  house  with  straw 
thatch,  there  a  few  houses  with  red  roofs  ;  in  a  little  potato 
patch  I  saw  a  pig  tied  to  a  ship’s  figure-head :  Hope  leaning 
on  an  anchor.  Here  peeps  from  the  gable  of  the  house  a 
colossal  figure,  —  Walter  Scott,  a  figure-head  from  some 
stranded  vessel. 

The  desert  here  has  its  oasis  also,  a  verdant  plantation  with 
beech,  willow,  poplar,  fir,  and  pine.  The  sod  covers  the  sand 
in  the  garden  that  otherwise  would  quickly  get  the  mastery.  I 
visited  Skagen’s  extreme  point,  that  is  so  small  that  one  man 
can  stand  on  it  and  have  the  waves  from  the  North  Sea  wash 
over  one  foot  and  the  waves  from  the  Kattegat  over  the  other. 
Countless  sea-birds  filled  the  air  with  their  cry,  and  from  the 
immense  gulf  of  the  sea  the  rolling  and  breaking  of  the  ground 
swell  gave  out  a  deep  roar.  The  view  out  over  the  level  sea 
as  it  meets  the  sky  makes  one  dizzy ;  one  unconsciously  looks 
to  see  out  here  on  the  point  if  there  is  still  solid  ground  be¬ 
hind  him  and  that  he  is  not  out  on  the  expanse  of  the  sea,  a 
worm  only  for  these  cloudy  swarms  of  screaming  fowl.  Stumps 
of  wrecks  and  of  ships  stand  like  mammoth’s  knuckles  down 
in  the  clear  transparent  water  that  is  turned,  when  a  storm 
comes  up,  into  foaming  waterfalls  that  leap  over  the  ledges  on 
the  coast  against  the  drifting  sand  heaps. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


446 

From  Skagen  I  was  driven  over  the  deep  sand  of  the  dunes 
to  old  Skagen,  that  for  years  has  always  been  moving  back 
into  the  country  ;  the  heavy  waves  roll  where  the  last  old 
Skagen  lay.  We  came  to  an  old  church  buried  under  the 
sand  heaps,  which  Dutch  and  Scottish  sea-captains  had  caused 
to  be  built  and  consecrated  to  St.  Laurentius.  In  the  course 
of  years  the  sand  heaped  itself  against  the  church-vard 
walls,  and  soon  lay  over  them  and  over  the  graves  and  tomb¬ 
stones,  quite  up  to  the  church’s  walls  and  windows.  Still  the 
parish  came  and  held  their  service  here,  but  soon  one  could 
not  shovel  it  away.  One  Sunday  when  the  neighbors  and  the 
priest  came,  an  immense  sand  heap  lay  before  the  church 
door,  then  the  priest  read  a  short  prayer  and  said,  “  Our 
Lord  has  now  closed  this  his  house,  we  must  build  Him  a  new 
one  elsewhere.” 

The  5th  of  June,  1795,  the  church  was  by  royal  order  closed, 
the  tower  alone  to  be  preserved  as  a  land-mark  for  sailors,  and 
it  still  remains.  The  old  inhabitants  of  Skagen  would  not 
give  up  the  old  church-yard  :  they  all  wanted  to  lie  there  by 
those  who  had  gone  before  ;  with  great  difficulty  this  was  done 
until  the  year  18 jo,  when  the  sand  had  so  entirely  covered  the 
church-yard  that  a  new  one  had  to  be  laid  out.  I  pushed  m^ 
way  through  to  the  sand-buried  old  church,  and  give  here  the 
impression  which  is  recorded  in  my  sketch  of  Skagen  :  — 

“  One  stands  here  by  the  buried  church  with  a  like  feeling 
to  that  he  has  on  the  ashy  heights  over  Pompeii.  The  leaden 
roof  is  broken  off,  the  white,  mealy  sand,  heated  in  the  glaring 
sun,  lies  heaped  upon  the  arches  of  the  church ;  all  is  hidden 
in  the  darkness  of  the  grave,  guarded  and  forgotten  by  men 
until  some  time  when  the  western  storms  shall  blow  away  the 
heavy  sand  heaps,  and  the  sun’s  rays  again  shine  in  through  the 
open  arched  window  on  the  pictures  in  the  choir,  the  long  rows 
of  portraits  nf  Skagen’s  councilors  and  burgomasters,  with  their 
names  and  official  seals.  Perhaps  a  people  coming  from  afar 
off  enters  this  Pompeii  of  Skagen,  and  again  gazes  in  wonder 
at  the  old  curiously  carved  altar  table  with  its  Bible  pictures. 
The  warm  sunshine  again  beams  upon  Mary  and  her  Babe 
that  holds  in  its  hand  the  gilded  globe.  Now  the  dead  sand 
waves  lie  here  ever  the  church,  a  desert  of  white  thorn  with 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


447 


their  yellow  berries  growing  in  the  sand  ;  wild  roses  too  bloom 
here,  and  the  wild  brier.  One  gets  to  thinking  of  the  fairy 
tale  about  the  sleeping  beauty  in  the  wood,  where  the  castle 
is  overgrown  by  an  impenetrable  thicket.  The  mighty  church- 
tower  still  rises  for  two  thirds  of  its  height  above  the  sand 
hills  ;  the  ravens  build  in  it,  a  swarm  of  them  hovering  about ; 
their  cry,  and  the  crackling  branches  of  the  white  thorn  that 
we  trod  on  to  get  forward,  were  the  only  sounds  I  heard  in  this 
sandy  wilderness.” 

After  a  couple  of  days’  stay  here  in  the  grand  wild  nature 
that  with  its  screaming  flock  of  birds  suggested  scenery  for 
Aristophanes’  “  Birds,”  I  turned  again  southward  on  my  way 
home.  One  of  my  Jutland  friends  and  the  minister’s  sister-in- 
law  accompanied  me.  The  waves  darting  up  were  too  heavy 
to  permit  us  to  drive  on  the  shingle  ;  we  were  obliged  to 
drive  through  the  deep  sand  in  the  dunes,  and  go  forward  very 
slowly.  I  talked  and  told  about  foreign  lands  I  had  seen, 
told  of  Italy  and  Greece,  of  Sweden  and  Switzerland.  The  old 
post-boy  listened,  and  said  with  a  kind  of  astonishment:  “  But 
how  can  such  an  old  man  as  you  be  content  to  roll  round  so  ?  M 
I  answered  with  quite  as  much  surprise. — 

“  Do  you  think  me  so  old  ?  ” 

“You  are  indeed  an  old  man,”  said  he. 

“  How  old  do  you  think  ?  ”  I  asked. 

“  Well  on  to  eighty.” 

“  Eighty  !  ”  exclaimed  I.  “  Travelling  has  certainly  aged 
me  ;  do  I  look  sickly  ?  ” 

“Yes,  you  do  look  dreadfully  lean,”  said  he.  To  be  fleshy 
was  his  idea  of  good  condition. 

I  spoke  of  the  new  beautiful  light-house  at  Skagen. 

“  The  king  ought  to  see  it  ;  ”  and  I  added,  — 

“  I  shall  tell  the  king  about  it  when  I  talk  with  him.”  At 
that  the  old  fellow  smiled  to  my  fellow-passengers. 

“  When  he  talks  with  the  king  !  ” 

“Yes,  I  have  talked  with  the  king”  I  answered,  “and  I 
hi.ve  eaten  with  the  king.”  Then  the  old  fellow  laid  his  hand 
on  his  forehead,  shook  his  head,  and  smiled  knowingly. 

“  He  has  eaten  with  the  king !  ”  He  thought  I  was  a  little 
cracked. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


448 

From  Frederickshavn,  whose  environs  are  a  most  charming 
part  of  Denmark,  with  the  heath,  beech  forests,  cornfields,  and 
open  shore,  I  came  often  to  Aalborg,  lived  again  at  Aalborg 
House,  where  I  was  honored  with  welcomes  and  singing  ;  it  was 
like  a  dream,  a  lovely  dream,  which  makes  me  happy,  and  for 
which  I  gave  thanks  to  our  Lord.  Everywhere  kind  eyes,  warm 
hearts,  beautiful  sunny  weather  in  this  varying  Jutland  country. 
On  the  way  through  Randers  and  Yiborg,  as  we  were  driving, 
the  song  “Jutland”  sprang  from  my  heart,  which  our  worthy 
composer  Heise,  set  to  music  that  is  sung  all  over  Denmark; 

Jutland  twixt  two  bounding  seas, 

Like  a  runic  stone  is  laid  ; 

The  mighty  Giant’s  Grave  is  there, 

Hid  in  the  thick  of  woody  glade. 

And  on  the  heath  between  the  tides, 

The  mighty  Tempest  monarch  bides. 

Jutland  !  dear  to  Danish  heart ! 

With  thy  wooded  lonely  heights, 

Thy  wild- wind  West  with  sand  heaped  hills 
That  tower  above  in  mountain  flights. 

The  1-  astern  Sea  and  North  Sea  stand 
And  clasp  their  hands  o’er  Skagen’s  strand. 

At  Asmild-Closter,  near  Viborg,  I  was  kindly  entertained  by 
friends,  and  enjoyed  more  merry  days  ;  but  the  best,  the  most 
unlooked-for  pleasure  was  on  the  morning  of  the  day  I  left. 
I  had  gone  about  a  mile  on  the  road  from  Viborg  when  I  saw 
by  the  way  a  young  lady  whom  I  had  met  at  Asmild-Closter, 
and  then  another,  and  now  my  coachman  reined  in  his  horse, 
and  I  saw  six  young,  pretty,  child-like  maids,  who  stood  waiting 
for  me  with  bunches  of  flowers.  They  had  gone  a  whole 
Danish  mile  in  the  early  morning  to  say  the  farewell  to  me 
which  they  would  not  say  in  the  busy  town.  I  was  wholly 
laken  by  surprise  and  deeply  moved,  and  did  not  show  my 
thankfulness  as  I  ought :  in  my  surprise  I  only  said :  — 

‘  My  dear  children,  to  come  so  far  for  my  sake  !  God  bless 
you.  Thanks,  thanks  !  ”  and  called  out  in  the  same  breath 
to  the  coachman,  “  Drive  on !  drive  on  !  ”  1  was  so  taker, 

aback  :  it  was  not  the  way  to  show  my  pleasure  and  gratitude 
ht  was  a  piece  of  awkward  embarrassment. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


449 


The  result  of  my  Jutland  journey  showed  itself  at  Christ¬ 
mas,  when  I  brought  out  a  “  Story  from  the  Sand  Hills,”  which 
was  very  well  received  ;  but  one  reviewer  of  my  book  was  of 
the  opinion  that  one  would  certainly  find  himself  deluded,  if, 
after  he  had  read  these  last  descriptions  and  my  sketches  of 
Skagen,  he  should  take  a  trip  there  and  expect  to  find  so 
poetic  a  country  as  had  been  pictured  by  me.  I  had  mean¬ 
while  the  pleasure  of  receiving  a  visit  from  Conference  Coun¬ 
cilor  Brinck  Seidelin,  the  man  who  could  best  judge  of  the 
truth  of  what  I  had  written,  and  who  had  himself  given  an 
excellent  sketch  of  Skagen  in  his  description  of  Hjorring 
County  ;  he  thanked  me  in  the  warmest  manner  for  the  ac¬ 
curacy  and  truthfulness  with  which  I  had  represented  the 
country.  I  had  a  letter  from  the  clergyman  of  Skagen,  ex¬ 
pressing  his  thanks  for  the  sketches  of  nature  there,  especially 
because  they  were  so  true.  He  added :  “  I  shall  now  also 
believe  and  tell  strangers  when  they  come  and  stand  on 
the  mound  of  the  sand-buried  church,  — ‘  Jorgen  lies  beneath 
there.’  ” 

Christmas  should  have  been  spent  at  dear,  home-like  Bas 
nos  ;  but  I  must  first,  as  always,  visit  Ingemann.  I  set  out 
early  in  the  morning  of  the  17th  December;  on  the  railway 
came  the  sorrowful  tidings  that  the  castle  of  Fredericksborg 
was  in  flames.  The  recollection  of  my  last  visit  there  came 
freshly  to  my  mind,  when,  as  I  have  related,  I  sailed  in  the 
royal  barge,  and  while  the  sunset  was  burning  in  the  sky,  read 
what  the  wind  told  of  Waldemar  Daae.  What  wealth  and 
glory  vanished  there  ! 

At  Ingemann’s  I  received  a  letter  from  King  Max  of  Bava 
ria.  He  wrote  that  when  the  year  before,  on  the  Starnberg 
Lake,  in  the  royal  boat,  I  read  some  of  my  Wonder  Stories,  he 
resolved  that  I  should  be  one  of  his  Knights  of  Maximilian. 
The  obstacles  then  in  the  way  were  now  removed,  and  he 
sent  me  this  high  order.  It  was  founded  by  the  King,  so  well 
disposed  toward  art  and  science.  On  the  order  is  a  design 
of  Pegasus  when  it  is  intended  for  poets  and  artists ;  Miner- 
*a’s  owl  when  given  to  a  man  of  science.  I  knew  that  in 
Munich  it  was  bestowed  on  the  poet  Geibel,  the  artist  Kaul- 
bach,  and  the  savan  Liebig.  I  have  been  told  that  the  two 

29 


45° 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


first  foreigners  who  have  received  it  were  thi  Frenchman 
Arago  and  the  Danish  poet  Andersen. 

I  was  made  happy  by  the  noble,  art-loving  King’s  appleci- 
ation.  Ingemann  and  his  wife  shared  in  my  pleasure,  and 
before  I  left  their  home  came  still  another  token,  a  Danish 
and  splendid  acknowledgment,  which  Ingemann  had  in  a 
friendly  way  been  regretting,  because  it  did  not  come.  Now 
I  had  it.  Just  after  my  return  home  from  Jutland,  I  went 
one  day  out  to  the  bath-house  near  Copenhagen  ;  on  the  way  I 
met  Bishop  Mourad,  who  was  the  Minister  of  Public  Worship  : 
we  had  known  each  other  for  a  long  series  of  years  ;  as  young 
students  we  lived  in  the  same  house,  and  he  had  asked  me  to 
visit  him.  Afterward  when  he  was  the  minister  at  Falster,  and 
I  was  on  my  way  from  the  fine  manor  Coselitye,  but  on  account 
of  stormy  weather  could  not  get  away  from  the  island,  I  spent 
a  couple  of  enjoyable,  intellectual  feast-days  with  him  and  fam¬ 
ily.  We  had  not  since  met.  Now  he  stopped  me  and  said 
that  the  pension  of  six  hundred  rix-dollars  which  I  had  each 
year  from  the  state  was  altogether  too  littlfe  ;  that  I  ought  to 
have  a  thousand  rix-dollars,  the  same  as  the  poets  Hertz,  Chris¬ 
tian  Winther,  and  Paludan-Miiller.  It  was  a  surprise  of  pleas-, 
ure,  yet  I  was  perplexed  ;  I  pressed  his  hand  and  said,  — 

“I  thank  you.  I  do  indeed  need  it;  I  am  growing  old. 
The  honorarium  for  authors  at  home  is,  as  you  know,  very 
small  —  thanks,  therefore,  my  heartfelt  thanks ;  but  do  not 
misunderstand  me  when  I  say,  what  you  will  yourself  feel, 
that  I  shall  never  remind  you  of  what  you  have  said —  I  can¬ 
not  do  that.”  We  parted  ;  for  a  long  time  I  heard  nothing 
further,  until  now,  during  my  visit  at  Ingemann’s,  there  came 
through  the  “Advertiser,”  in  which  the  Rigsdag’s  proceedings 
were  reported,  the  announcement  that  the  pension  of  six  hun¬ 
dred  rix-dollars  which  had  been  granted  me  was  to  be  in¬ 
creased  by  the  yearly  addition  of  four  hundred  rix-dollars. 
My  dear  Ingemann,  in  high  spirits  and  joy,  drank  my  health, 
and  my  friends  sent  me  their  congratulations  ;  I  felt  with  deep 
humility  that  I  was  the  child  of  fortune,  always  defended  and 
sheltered,  and  it  gave  me  a  fear,  such  as  I  have  often  known, 
hat  such  fortune  could  not  always  be  by  me,  and  there  would 
won  come  seas  of  trouble  and  days  of  heaviness. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


451 

On  Christmas  Eve  I  was  at  Basnos  where  the  Christmas- 
tree  was  lighted  not  only  for  the  guests  of  the  house)  but  also 
there  was  one  for  the  Door  children  on  the  estate.  Their  tree 

L. 

was  quite  as  fine  and  brilliant  as  ours.  Madame  Scavenius  had 
herself  dressed  it  and  lighted  every  candle.  I  had  cut  out 
anJ  fastened  figures  which  hung  from  the  green  branches; 
they  spread  a  table  about  it  with  such  Christmas  gifts  as  would 
especially  delight  the  mothers  of  the  poor  children,  —  cloth  foi 
petticoats,  linen  for  underclothing,  and  many  another  useful 
thing.  The  poor  women  were  well  cared  for  and  had  a  happy 
evening ;  we  had  many.  The  snow  fell,  the  sleigh-bells 
jingled,  the  wild  swans  sang  on  the  sea-shore  ;  it  was  charming 
without,  it  was  snug  within.  The  young  people  danced  till 
the  morning  light.  From  the  neighboring  place  and  from 
miles  about,  relations  and  friends  were  invited.  From  the 
neighboring  place,  Waldemar  Daae’s  knightly  house,  the  family 
and  their  guests  came ;  among  these  was  one  I  was  especially 
glad  to  meet,  the  romance  writer  St.  Aubain,  by  which  pseu¬ 
donym  the  author  Karl  Bernhard  is  widely  known.  His  fresh, 
spirited  sketches,  and  his  character,  so  true  to  Danish  nature, 
gave  him  a  distinguished  place.  He  was,  besides,  kind,  ready 
to  help,  and  always  devoted  to  others  ;  one  could  scarcely 
believe  that  he  was  up  among  the  sixties,  so  youthful  in  ap¬ 
pearance  to  outsiders  ;  he  was  among  the  dancers,  among  the 
talkers,  and  with  me  open,  hearty,  laughing  at  the  world’s 
littleness,  but  happy  too  with  the  blessings  he  found  there. 

i860. 

The  sixth  of  January  I  was  again  in  Copenhagen  ;  it  was 
the  elder  Collin’s  birthday,  —  a  notable  day  for  me,  and  for 
numberless  others  whom  he  had  helped  and  aided  a  piece 
further  over  some  rough  road  of  life.  At  the  beginning  of 
this  year  there  was  started  the  idea  of  erecting  a  monument 
in  honor  of  H.  C.  Orsted,  the  discoverer  of  electro-magnetism. 
The  idea  originated  with  Madame  Jenchau ;  so,  too,  the  idea 
of  the  monument  already  built  to  the  poet  Oehlenschlager 
same  from  Henriette  Wulff,  who,  through  her  brother  and 
ather  clever  men,  carried  it  out.  Among  the  names  of  those 
vho  signed  the  call  for  Orsted’s  monument  were,  of  states* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


452 

men,  Privy- Councilor  Tillisch  ;  of  men  of  science,  Foichham* 
mer  ;  State-Councilor  Suhr,  to  represent  commerce  ;  and  the 
poet  H.  C.  Andersen.  The  execution  of  the  monument  was 
intrusted  to  Professor  Jerichau,  who  for  a  fixed  sum  was  to 
have  the  statue  cast  in  bronze  by  a  certain  date,  and  placed  in 
one  of  the  public  squares  of  Copenhagen. 

Spring  came  and  with  it  travel  time.  The  woods  were 
green ;  Ingemann  wrote  and  bade  me  come.  Soon  I  was  at 
Sorb,  and  a  few  days  after  in  Rendsborg.  Captain  Lonborg 
and  his  wife  had  invited  me  there.  I  spent  a  few  delightful 
days  here,  heard  the  praises  only  of  whatever  was  Danish, 
saw  the  Dannebrog  wave,  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  obstinate 
people  who  declaimed  against  Danish  things.  There  was  quite 
a  show  of  military  here,  the  officers  honored  me  with  a  feast, 
and  when  I  was  asked  to  stay  a  day  longer,  and  give  pleasure 
to  the  soldiers  by  reading  them  some  of  my  stories,  I  was  of 
course  at  once  ready.  A  large  club-house,  the  “  Harmony,” 
I  believe,  was  selected  for  the  reading,  and  decorated  with  flow¬ 
ers  and  the  Danish  flag.  The  King’s  bust  stood  above  draped 
with  the  Dannebrog.  Officers  and  subalterns,  besides  many 
ladies  and  some  individuals  of  the  citizen  class  in  the  town 
who  understood  Danish,  were  given  places ;  the  recruits  filled 
the  gallery  ;  the  band  played  between  the  reading  of  each 
story.  The  sun  was  still  shining  when  I  went  home  to  Lon- 
borg’s  house,  where  several  friends  had  met.  “  It  was  a 
Danish  day,”  they  all  said. 

At  midnight  when  I  was  in  bed,  I  heard  a  noise  outside ;  I 
became  restless,  and  thought  immediately,  “  Now  some  more 
fun  ;  now  follows  a  demonstration  from  the  Germans.”  My  host 
and  his  wife  thought  the  same.  I  lay  listening  a  few  seconds 
when  a  song  began  given  by  beautiful  voices,  and  I  heard  the 
words,  “  Sleep  well.”  It  was  truly  a  friendly  greeting  which 
the  Germans  brought  the  Danish  poet,  whose  Wonder  Stories 
and  Tales  they  knew  in  translation. 

In  the  morning  the  Danish  military  came  and  played  out¬ 
side  our  house,  and  when  later  in  the  day  I  went  to  the  railway 
station,  the  Dannebrog  was  flying  over  it.  A  deputation  from 
the  soldiery  brought  me  their  thanks  for  the  reading  of  the 
day  previous  ;  they  stationed  themselves  in  ranks,  sang  Danish 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE .  453 

songs,  and  when  the  train  started  gave  a  ringing  hurra  for 
their  good-by  greeting. 

It  was  my  intention  to  travel  once  more  in  my  life  to  Rome, 
and  pass  the  winter  in  Italy.  I  made  the  journey  through 
Germany  by  Eisnach  and  Niirnberg,  and  visited  for  the  first 
time  the  old  city  Regensburg,  and  made  an  excursion  out  to 
the  splendid  Valhalla  which  King  Ludvig  had  built  as  by  en* 
chantment  on  the  rocky  cliff. 

In  Munich  good  friends  were  expecting  me.  I  spent  charm¬ 
ing  hours  there,  rich  in  enjoyment,  with  the  artist  Kaulbach  ;  in 
his  house  one  found  such  a  fresh  and  home-like  spirit ;  several 
of  Munich’s  famous  names  met  there,  Liebig,  Seboldt,  Geibel, 
and  Kobbel.  King  Max  and  his  noble  consort  showed  me 
great  kindness  and  favor.  It  was  not  easy  to  leave  the  artistic, 
hospitable  Munich. 

But  an  excursion  of  great  interest  called  me  for  a  few  days 
out  to  the  mountains  to  see  the  miracle-play  at  Oberammer- 
gau.  Every  tenth  year  they  repeat  the  people’s  plays  here,  a 
relic  of  the  mysteries  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  celebrated 
Edward  Devrient  saw  them  in  the  year  1850,  and  he  gave  an 
interesting  account  of  them.  Now  in  i860,  they  had  begun 
the  twenty-eighth  of  May,  and  would  continue  once  a  week 
until  the  sixteenth  of  September. 

The  inhabitants  of  Oberamtnergau  live  mostly  by  wood-carv¬ 
ing.  Now  they  rested  from  work  for  this  was  the  festival  year. 
Strangers  came  from  afar  to  take  part  in  it.  The  stream  of 
people  was  continually  increasing.  Every  one  was  received 
as  a  welcome  guest,  not  as  a  stranger.  Each  was  lodged  for 
a  very  small  sum,  and  entertained  to  the  very  best  of  their 
power  and  means.  I  was  most  excellently  provided  for  ; 
my  friends  from  Munich  looked  out  for  that.  The  priest 
of  the  place,  Herr  Daisenberger,  who  had  written  and  pub¬ 
lished  the  history  of  Oberammergau  received  me  with  great 
\tospitality. 

There  was  life  and  stir  in  the  houses  and  without ;  the  towns 
folk  and  peasants  bustled  about,  the  bells  rang ;  cannon  were 
fired,  the  pilgrims  came  singing  on  their  winding  way.  The 
whole  night  long  there  was  song  and  music,  plenty  of  excite¬ 
ment,  but  no  rioting.  The  nex*  morning,  Pastor  Daisenberger 


454 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


took  me  to  the  theatre  that  had  been  built  of  beams  and 
boards  on  the  green  plain  outside  the  town.  At  eight  o’clock 
the  miracle-play  was  to  begin,  and  would  continue,  with  only 
an  hour’s  intermission,  until  five  in  the  afternoon.  We  sat 
under  the  open  sky  ;  the  wind  sighed  above  us,  the  birds 
came  and  flew  out  again.  I  thought  of  the  old  Indian  play 
in  the  open  air  where  the  Sakuntala  was  given  ;  I  thought  of 
the  Greek  theatre ;  I  saw  before  me  the  stage  for  the  chorus, 
and  the  chorus  leaders  that  entered  with  song.  Recitative  and 
speech  gave  connection  to  the  action.  The  whole  story  of  the 
Passion,  illustrated  by  parallel  passages  from  the  Old  Testa¬ 
ment,  was  given  in  living  pictures.  Behind  the  choir  and  choir 
leaders  the  stage  was  built,  the  real  theatre  with  movable  cur¬ 
tains,  side  scenes,  and  background.  The  theatre  itself  was 
flanked  on  each  side  by  a  small  structure  with  a  balcony  ;  in 
one  of  these  was  placed  the  High-priest,  in  the  other  Pilate ; 
the  dramatic  action  on  the  part  of  each  took  place  on  the 
balcony.  In  each  of  the  two  mentioned  buildings  was  an 
arched  door,  through  which  one  could  see  into  the  streets  of 
Jerusalem.  The  entire,  often  threefold  action  was  astonish¬ 
ingly  well  put  on  the  stage.  One  was  with  the  High-priest, 
with  Pilate ;  one  stood  with  the  people  when  they  waved  the 
palms  and  when  they  cried,  Crucify  Him  !  ”  There  was  an 
ease  and  a  beauty  about  it  that  must  impress  every  one.  It 
is  said  that  the  persons  whom  the  community  unanimously 
appointed  to  the  sacred  roles  must  be  of  spotless  life,  and  that 
the  one  who  represented  Christ  always,  before  the  beginning 
of  the  Passion  play,  partook  of  the  sacrament  at  the  altar. 
Last  year  it  was  a  young  image-carver,  Schauer  ;  they  say 
that  the  spiritual  exertion  possessed  him  in  such  a  degree, 
that  after  the  acting  he  was  not  able  to  partake  of  anything, 
or  to  speak  with  any  one  before  he  had  recovered  himself  in 
solitude. 

The  whole  play  was  like  a  church-going  where  the  sermon 
was  not  merely  heard  but  seen  in  living  representation.  Cer¬ 
tainly  every  one  went  away  edified,  his  soul  filled  with  a  sense 
of  that  love  which  gave  itself  for  unborn  generations.  In 
[870  the  Passion  play  will  again  be  given  in  Oberammergau. 

My  good  hearted,  well-read  host  said  to  me  quite  frankly 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


455 

that  lie  had  never  read  anything  of  mine,  but  knew  that  I 
wrote  Wonder  Stories ;  I  saw  a  kind  of  smile  playing  about 
his  mouth  —  he  did  not  read  Wonder  Stories.  I  had  with  me 
a  little  volume  of  them  translated  into  German,  and  I  gave  it 
to  him,  and  asked  him  to  read  occasionally  a  little  in  it ;  he 
took  it  kindly,  and  honored  me  immediately  afterward  with 
his  description  of  Oberammergau.  The  day  after  as  we  were 
going  to  the  Passion  play  the  hospitable  man  said  to  me,  “I 
have  already  read  the  little  book  you  gave  me  yesterday.  Call 
them  not  Wonder  Stories,  —  they  are  far  beyond  such.  The 
‘  Story  of  a  Mother,’  I  shall  be  able  to  tell  at  a  child’s  grave, 
and  carry  faith  by  it  to  the  bereaved.” 

From  Munich  I  went  by  Lindau  to  Switzerland,  up  into 
the  Jura  Mountains,  to  the  little  watchmaking  town  Le  Lode, 
where  in  1833  I  wrote  my  poem,  “  Agnete  and  the  Mermaid.” 
At  that  time  the  journey  up  here  was  a  laborious  one,  several 
hours  by  diligence  ;  now  one  makes  the  trip  by  steam  on  the 
railway,  making  a  long  ascent ;  then  one  comes  to  a  stopping- 
place  ;  the  locomotive  is  taken  from  the  front  and  placed  in 
the  rear,  the  last  car  becomes  now  the  first,  a  new  incline  is 
mounted  to  the  next  section,  where  again  a  locomotive  waits 
to  send  it  up  the  next  incline.  It  is  a  true  “  Voyage  en  zigzag 

At  the  top  the  railway  passes  through  one  of  the  largest 
ninnels,  4,200  metres  long,  and  after  one  has  just  a  peep  of 
daylight  and  a  breath  of  fresh  air  one  goes  in  a  twinkling  into 
a  lesser  tunnel,  half  as  long  only,  and  then  comes  to  the 
pretty  mountain-town  of  Chaux  de  Fonds,  and  soon  in  a  deep 
valley  up  at  the  top  of  the  mountain,  Le  Locle.  Here  lives 
and  works  my  countryman  and  friend,  Urban  Jiirgensen, 
from  v.hom  every  year  a  great  number  of  watches  are  sent  to 
America. 

Eighty  years  ago  there  was  not  a  watchmaker  in  the  country  ; 
now  in  and  about  Le  Locle  20,000  men  support  themselves  by 
this  craft.  There  once  came  here  by  chance  an  English  horse- 
dealer,  whose  watch  had  become  broken  ;  he  was  directed  to 
the  smith,  Daniel  Jean  Richard,  a  skillful  man,  who  certainly 
never  before  had  taken  a  watch  to  pieces,  but  now  he  ventured 
'%  put  it  together  again  so  that  i:  was  in  good  order  and  went. 
He  took  a  fancy  to  make  a  watcn  for  himself ;  he  succeeded 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


456 

and  from  that  hour  he  turned  all  his  thought  to  watchmaking ; 
he  taught  his  seven  sons,  and  soon  Le  Locle  was  established 
as  the  first  watchmaking  place.  It  should  raise  a  monument 
to  the  smith,  Daniel  Jean  Richard. 

My  friend  Jules  Jurgensen  was  living,  during  this  visit  of 
mine,  in  the  same  old  house  where  I  had  lived  with  his  uncle 
Hourriet.  I  occupied  my  old  room,  visited  again  the  under¬ 
ground  water-mill,  saw  the  Doub  Fall,  drove  from  the  pine  and 
birch  woods  to  the  French  side  where  the  beech-trees  grow, 
where  the  sun  shines  far  warmer  than  at  Le  Locle ;  but  warm 
hearts  were  there,  sympathizing  friends. 

Jiirgensen’s  oldest  son,  who  with  his  brother  are  famous 
craftsmen  in  their  father’s  art,  have  also  no  little  literary  skill. 
The  single  French  translations  of  my  writings  did  not  seem 
to  be  very  good,  and  my  young  friend  wished  to  see  if  he  could 
not  produce  better  ones.  With  my  cooperation  during  my 
visit  here,  a  translation  was  begun.  I  read,  and  saw  to  my 
surprise  how  far  ahead,  as  regards  the  expression  of  feeling 
and  tone,  the  Danish  language  is  of  the  French  :  they  have 
often  only  one  word  where  we  have  a  large  choice.  I  would 
call  the  French  language  plastic  :  it  is  akin  to  sculpture,  where 
all  is  precise,  clear,  and  well  defined ;  but  our  Danish  mother 
tongue  has  a  richness  of  color,  a  variety  in  expression  that 
fits  the  varying  tone.  I  was  pleased  at  the  wealth  of  my 
mother  tongue,  which  is  so  supple  and  musical  when  it  is 
spoken  as  it  should  be  spoken.  In  Le  Locle,  on  the  Jura 
heights,  it  was  that  I  made  this  discovery.  Jules  Jiirgensen’s 
translation  of  the  “  Marsh  King’s  Daughter,”  and  a  few  more 
of  my  Wonder  Stories,  was  issued  with  the  imprint  of  Joel 
Charbuliez  in  Geneva  and  Paris,  in  1861,  under  the  title  of 
“  Danish  Fancies.” 

In  Geneva  I  wished  to  spend  some  time:  the  way  thither 

from  Le  Locle  lay  by  St.  Croix  to  Y verdun,  through  the 

loveliest  part  of  the  Jura  Mountains,  and  where  one  from  the 

heights  has  the  most  magnificent  view  of  the  Alpine  range  and 

the  lakes  of  Neufchatel  and  Geneva.  I  saw  the  view  in  the 

\ 

wonderful  evening  light  with  the  Alpine  glow  and  the  harmo¬ 
nious  stillness.  A  good  pension  at  Madame  Achard’s  in 
Geneva  was  recommended  to  me  :  I  had  a  room  looking  oul 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


457 


on  the  lake.  I  made  excursions  out  on  the  lake,  had  a 
delightful  company  of  French  and  Americans  about  me,  and 
I  soon  found  friends  and  acquaintances  in  town  :  I  was  intro¬ 
duced  to  the  Swiss  poet  Petit-Senn,  a  most  excellent  old  man, 
* —  a  Swiss  Beranger.  He  had  a  pretty  country-house  outside 
the  town.  I  dined  with  him,  and  found  him  very  youthful  and 
merry  and  full  of  spirits.  Dinner  over  and  the  coffee  drunk, 
he  took  his  guitar,  and  like  a  Northern  minstrel  sang  several 
of  his  songs. 

One  of  the  first  days  after  I  had  moved  to  Madame  Achard’s 
I  wished  to  visit  one  of  the  families  I  was  introduced  to,  and 
I  took  a  drosky  at  my  door  and  showed  the  driver  the  address 
on  the  letter,  the  street  and  house  I  wanted  to  go  to.  I  sat  in 
the  carriage  and  we  drove  and  drove  :  it  was  a  long  way  up 
street  and  down  street,  beyond  the  old  abandoned  rampart ; 
at  length  I  was  at  the  place.  I  got  out  of  the  carriage,  looked 
about  me  and  found  myself  in  a  street  hard  by  the  square 
from  which  I  had  driven  all  this  long  way.  I  saw  Madame 
Achard’s  house  from  which  I  had  set  out. 

“  Are  you  a  Swiss  ?  ”  I  asked  the  driver.  He  answered 
“  Yes.” 

“That  cannot  be  true,”  said  I.  “  I  came  from  a  long  way 
off,  from  far  up  in  the  North,  and  there  we  have  read  of  Switz¬ 
erland  and  heard  of  William  Tell,  and  the  noble,  brave  Swiss 
people  stand  in  high  honor  with  us ;  and  now  I  come  down 
here,  so  that  I  may  tell  people  at  liQme  truly  about  these 
brave  people,  and  then  I  take  my  seat  in  a  carriage  over 
‘■here  the  other  side  of  the  square,  show  the  address  where  I 
want  to  go,  —  it  is  only  a  few  steps  to  drive,  and  I  am  carried 
all  over  town  on  a  half-hour  tour.  It  is  a  cheat,  and  no  Swiss 
will  cheat.  You  are  not  a  Swiss  !  ” 

The  man  at  this  was  quite  abashed :  he  was  a  young  fellow, 
ind  burst  out,  “  You  shall  not  pay  at  all,  or  only  pay  what 
you  please.  The  Swiss  are  brave  folk.”  His  words  and 
voice  touched  me  and  we  parted  good  friends. 

During  my  visit  at  Geneva  I  received  the  news  of  the  death 
cf  the  poet  Johan  Ludvig  Heiberg.  I  have,  in  “The  Story  of 
ir.y  Life,”  spoken  of  his  distinction  and  of  my  relations  to  him. 
He  had  in  his  popular  u  Flyirg  Post  ”  brought  forward  my 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


458 

earliest  poems  ;  he  had  when  I,  as  a  young  author,  applied 
for  a  travelling  stipend,  given  me  the  striking  testimonial  that 
in  humor  I  was  to  be  ranked  with  our  emjnent  Wessel,  the 
most  noted  humorous  poet  in  Denmark.  There  came  indeed 
a  time  later  when  Heiberg  opposed  me,  and  wrote  of  me  in 
his  book,  “A  Soul  after  Death,”  but  soon  there  came  again 
an  appreciation  and  perception  of  what  God  had  bestowed 
upon  me. 

The  news  of  Heiberg’s  death  came  unexpectedly  and  affected 
me  greatly.  All  the  men  of  genius  and  power  whom  I  had 
known  and  loved  were  departing,  one  after  another. 

I  stayed  in  Geneva  until  late  in  September.  The  wind  al¬ 
ready  blew  cold  and  wintry  from  the  Jura  Mountains  and  sent 
the  yellow  leaves  whirling  from  the  trees.  The  reports  from 
Italy  were  not  very  encouraging.  I  doubted  whether  I  could 
obtain  agreeable  winter-quarters  in  Rome,  and  the  cholera 
was  in  Spain.  I  resolved  to  pass  the  winter  in  Denmark.  It 
was  cold  as  winter  here  in  Geneva,  yet  before  I  drew  near 
home  I  was  to  have  some  summer  in  the  luxury  of  the  fruit 
season.  By  chance,  as  I  was  going  by  way  of  Basle  to  Stutt¬ 
gart,  I  came  upon  a  great  agricultural  fair.  People  had 
flocked  thither  from  town  and  country.  Fruits  of  every  kind 
beautified  the  first  part  of  the  festival.  Heaps  of  corn  and 
hop-vines,  pears  and  grapes,  vegetables  and  fruits  were  dis¬ 
played  in  arabesque  splendor :  ever  since,  whenever  I  look 
back  upon  the  country  of  Wiirtemberg,  this  autumn  fruit-show 
stands  out  in  my  thoughts. 

With  my  young  friend  the  painter  Bamberg  from  Basle  I 
came  to  Stuttgart :  he  was  received  at  the  station  by  the 
distinguished  and  busy  book-seller  Hoffman,  who  at  once  in 
the  heartiest  way  invited  me  also  to  stay  in  his  house.  The 
theatre  intendant  gave  me  a  place  in  his  box. 

“You  certainly  can  travel  easily!”  said  friends  in  Copen- 
hagen  to  me,  when  I  came  home  and  told  of  all  the  hospitality 
und  all  the  good  fortune  I  had  had.  A  welcome  fireside  on 
the  Jura,  in  Stuttgart  too,  in  Munich,  in  Maxen,  —  all  the 
way!  “You  have  your  house  on  the  locomotive  dragon’s 
tail,”  Ingemann  once  wrote  me  ;  and  it  was  really  almost  so, 

Christmas  Eve  I  was  not  sitting  in  Rome  as  I  had  though* 
to  do,  but  was  happy  at  Basnos. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


459 


In  a  number  of  “  Household  Words,”  Charles  Dickens  had 
Drought  together  several  Arabian  proverbs  and  parables. 
Among  them  there  was  one  which  he  referred  to  in  a  note  ; 
“  ‘  When  they  came  to  shoe  the  Pasha’s  horses,  the  beetle 
stretched  out  his  leg.’  This  is  exquisite  ;  we  commend  it  to 
the  attention  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen.”  I  wanted  very 
much  to  make  a  Wonder  Story  of  it,  but  it  did  not  come  ;  and 
not  till  a  year  after,  on  the  next  to  the  last  day  of  the  year, 
during  a  visit  at  Basnos,  where  I  accidentally  read  Dickens’s 
words,  the  story  of  “  The  Beetle  ”  suddenly  found  life.  The 
day  after  I  wrote  the  “  Snow  Maiden.”  This  closed  my 
literary  work  in  i860. 


1861. 

As  soon  as  April  came  T  felt  my  wings  begin  to  creak.  The 
bird  of  passage  life  came  with  the  first  warm  rays  of  the  sun. 
I  wished  once  more  in  my  life  to  see  Rome,  and  carry  out  the 
journey  which  I  had  to  give  up  the  year  before.  This  time 
there  accompanied  me  my  young  friend  Jonas  Collin,  son  of 
Councilor  of  State  Collin.  We  went  by  Geneva  and  Lyon  to 
Nice  ;  here  we  rested,  and  from  this  point  began  the  only  new 
part  of  the  journey  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  —  the  artistic, 
pretty  Cornici  road,  between  Nice  and  Genoa :  one  ought 
rather  to  travel  it  on  foot  or  loiter  along  in  a  carriage,  in  order 
to  enjoy  the  charming  view  that  is  discovered  between  cliffs 
and  wooded  tracts  out  over  the  rolling  Mediterranean.  There 
were  palms  here  of  a  luxuriance  which  I  have  seen  in  no  place 
.11  Italy  ;  every  year  palm  branches  are  carried  in  great  quanti¬ 
ties  to  Rome,  to  be  blessed  by  the  Pope  and  distributed.  The 
rocky  little  kingdom  of  Monaco  lies,  with  its  city  and  district, 
like  a  map  drawn  on  the  water  ;  it  lay  before  us  in  the  bright 
sunshine  like  a  little  toy  kingdom,  and  one  wishes  to  climb 
down  there  to  it. 

The  journey  from  Nice  to  Genoa  by  diligence  takes  a  day 
and  night,  but  the  road  is  far  too  beautiful  a  piece  of  art  for  us 
to  allow  half  of  it  to  be  passed  over  in  the  night-time,  so  we 
made  the  journey  in  two  parts,  stopping  over  night  half  way, 
and  securing  our  places  in  the  diligence  that  was  to  go  on  the 
next  daj'.  Old  memories  were  recalled  in  Genoa  where  I  had 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  Lift. 


460 

aot  been  since  my  first  visit  there  in  1833.  We  took  the  steam' 
boat,  and  had  fair  weather  to  Civita  Vecchia. 

On  the  whole  journey  thus  far,  not  a  soul  had  asked  us  for 
our  passport ;  now  in  the  Papal  States  began  that  passport 
nuisance  in  the  heaviest  fashion  ;  no  one  was  allowed  to  step 
on  shore  until  his  passport  had  been  dispatched  ;  every  pas¬ 
senger  must  immediately  at  the  landing  place  make  his  way  — 
and  it  was  not  at  all  a  short  way —  to  the  town-hall,  where  he 
did  not  get  his  passport  but  a  sort  of  receipt  for  it,  a  permit 
to  go  by  rail  to  Rome  ;  in  the  middle  of  the  journey  the  per¬ 
mit  must  be  shown,  and  now  at  Rome  one  must  through  the 
Danish  Consul  manage  to  get  a  residence  card,  and  it  was  a 
week  before  we  got  that.  Rome,  that  gets  its  great  advantage 
from  the  visits  of  foreigners,  does  not  seem  to  think  at  all  how 
it  can  make  such  visits  easy. 

In  the  old  Cafe  Graece,  where  the  Consul  for  Denmark, 
Sweden,  and  Norway,  my  friend  Brovo,  lived,  I  got  apartments 
for  myself  and  my  young  travelling  companion,  and  now  we 
went  out  into  the  great  city,  so  familiar  and  so  homelike.  I 
once  more  saw  and  could  point  out  to  him  all  the  famous 
sights.  There  had  been  no  great  change  since  I  was  last 
here  ;  people  talked  a  good  deal,  however,  of  the  insecurity  to 
life  and  property  in  the  streets  of  the  city,  but  I  myself  saw 
no  signs  of  it.  Ruins,  museums,  churches,  and  gardens  were 
visited,  friends  and  acquaintances  sought  out ;  one  of  the  very 
first  of  these  was  my  countryman  Kuchler,  now  Pietro,  a  monk 
in  the  convent  near  the  ruins  of  Borgia’s  palace.  With  his 
tonsure,  and  dressed  in  a  coarse  brown  monkish  dress,  he  came 
forward  to  meet  me,  embraced  and  kissed  me  and  spoke  with 
the  familiar  “  Thou.”  He  carried  me  to  his  atelier ,  a  large 
apartment  with  a  most  delightful  lookout  upon  orange-trees 
and  rose  bushes,  to  the  Coliseum  and  over  the  Campagna  to 
the  picturesque  mountains  beyond.  I  was  happy  at  being 
with  my  friend,  and  in  an  ecstasy  over  the  lovely  view. 

“  It  is  wonderfully  beautiful  here,”  I  exclaimed. 

“  Yes,  here  thou  also  oughtest  to  live,  —  to  live  in  peace  and 
vith  God,”  said  he  with  a  quiet  friendly  smile  that  had  a  seri* 
ous  meaning.  But  I  answered  quickly  and  decidedly,  — 

“  For  a  few  days  I  could  stay  here,  but  then  I  should  need 
to  pass  out  into  the  world  again  and  live  there.” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


461 

He  was  at  work  upon  a  copy  after  Domenichino,  ordered 
by  Mr.  Pugaard  of  Copenhagen  ;  the  money  for  it  was  of 
course  to  be  paid  to  the  monastery. 

The  Norwegian  poet,  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  was  in  Rome, 
and  I  was  glad  now  to  make  his  acquaintance  here,  for  I  never 
had  met  him  or  seen  him  before.  It  was  quite  a  long  time  at 
home  in  Copenhagen  before  I  read  the  works  of  the  gifted 
author ;  several  had  said  that  his  books  would  not  suit  my 
taste  :  It  is  best,  I  thought,  to  try  that  for  myself ;  so  I  read  his 
story,  “  A  Happy  Boy.”  It  was  as  if  I  stood  in  the  open 
country,  under  the  fresh  sky,  by  the  breezy  birch  woods ;  I 
was  captivated  by  it,  and  went  immediately  to  all  those  who 
had  told  me  that  Bjornson  would  not  please  my  taste,  and  said 
to  them  that  it  was  really  a  wrong  done  me,  and  I  was  aston¬ 
ished  that  they  should  believe  me  incapable  of  being  glad  and 
grateful  for  a  tflue  poet.  Then  one  and  another  showed  that 
they  thought  Bjornson  and  I  were  so  opposite  in  our  nature 
that  we  should  immediately  be  inimical  to  each  other. 

It  so  happened  that  on  my  journey  from  Copenhagen  I  was 
asked  through  a  third  person  if  I  would  not  take  out  some 
books  to  him  from  his  wife.  I  consented  very  willingly,  and 
on  calling  upon  her  I  told  her  how  dear  her  husband  was  to 
me  as  a  poet  and  I  begged  her  to  write  to  him  that  he  must 
be  prepared  to  like  me  when  we  met,  for  I  thought  a  great 
deal  of  him,  and  we  must  be  friends.  And  from  our  first  meet¬ 
ing  in  Rome  until  the  present  hour  he  has  been  most  kind  and 
considerate  toward  me  ;  he  was  as  ready  to  like  me  as  I  had 
asked  and  wished. 

The  Scandinavians  had  given  an  entertainment  to  our  Con¬ 
sul  Brovo  in  a  rural  outskirt  of  Rome  ;  I  have  given  a  picture 
of  the  place  in  my  Wonder  Story  “  Psyche  ”  ;  the  entertainment 
was  intended  for  me  also,  on  this  my  fourth  visit  from  the 
North  to  the  Roman  city.  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  read  a  pretty 
song  he  had  written  in  my  honor. 

“  Our  sky  is  not  so  free, 

A  chill  is  on  our  sea, 

Nor  have  our  woods  the  palm-tree’s  sway, 

As  in  the  South,  men  say. 

But  the  northern  lights  flash  over  the  sky. 

The  woods  whisper  fairy  tales  airily, 


462 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE, 


And  the  sea  doth  bound 
As  the  lingering  sound 
Of  our  fathers’  song  of  victory. 

“  A  traveller  from  that  wonder  land, 

Thou  bringest  tidings  in  thy  hand 
Of  winter’s  dreams  by  northern  lights, 

The  pranks  of  the  woods  in  their  fancy  flight* ; 

Aye,  of  a  place  so  far  away 

That  folks  and  beasts  together  play, 

And  the  veriest  flower 
Will  talk  by  the  hour 
So  plain  that  a  child  its  meaning  can  say. 

“  Where  heaven  itself  in  holy  love 
Bends  as  a  Christmas-tree  above, 

And  all  goes  on  before  God’s  face, — 

Tidings  thou  bearest  from  that  place, 

And  comest  to  sirocco-laden  Rome, 

Breathing  of  beech  and  birch  from  home, 

With  melody 
And  witchery 

From  the  north  land’s  faerie.” 


I  was  only  one  month  in  Rome  this  time.  Among  the  ac¬ 
quaintances  which  I  made,  one  is  especially  dear  to  me,  the 
American  sculptor  Story.  He  took  me  to  his  studio,  where  I 
was  delighted  with  a  statue  of  Beethoven  and  an  allegorical 
representation  of  America ;  he  introduced  me  also  to  his  wife 
and  children  at  his  apartments  in  the  Barberini  Palace.  He 
brought  together  there  one  day  several  American  and  English 
friends,  with  all  their  flock  of  children.  I  sat  in  the  midst  of 
the  circle  of  children,  and  read  with  unpardonable  boldness  in 
English,  which  I  did  not  know  at  all  well,  but  I  read,  at  re¬ 
quest,  the  story  of  “  The  Ugly  Duckling ;  ”  the  children  gave 
me  a  wreath  of  flowers. 

Mr.  Story  took  me  to  see  the  English  poetess,  Elizabeth 
Barrett  Browning ;  she  was  ill  and  suffering  greatly,  but  she 
looked  upon  me  with  her  lustrous  gentle  eyes,  pressed  my 
hand,  and  thanked  me  for  my  writings.  Two  years  afterward 
I  heard  from  Lytton  Bulwer’s  son  how  kindly  and  tenderly 
Mrs.  Browning  thought  of  me  ;  her  last  poem,  too,  il  The  North 
and  the  South,”  written  in  Rome  in  May,  1861,  on  the  day  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


463 


my  visit,  closes  the  volume  of  her  writings  called  Last 
Poems,”  that  appeared  after  her  death.  I  lay  the  fragrant 
flowers  between  these  leaves. 

% 

THE  NORTH  AND  THE  SOUTH. 

I. 

u  Now  give  us  lands  where  the  olives  grow,” 

Cried  the  North  to  the  South, 

M  Where  the  sun  with  a  golden  mouth  can  blow 
Blue  bubbles  of  grapes  down  a  vineyard  row  ! ,- 
Cried  the  North  to  the  South. 

“  Now  give  us  men  from  the  sunless  plain,” 

Cried  the  South  to  the  North, 

“  By  need  of  work  in  the  snow  and  the  rain 
Made  strong  and  brave  by  familiar  pain  !  ” 

Cried  the  South  to  the  North. 

II. 

“  Give  lucider  hills  and  intenser  seas,” 

Said  the  North  to  the  South, 

“  Since  ever  by  symbols  and  bright  degrees 
Art,  child-like,  climbs  to  the  dear  Lord’s  knees,” 

Said  the  North  to  the  South. 

**  Give  strenuous  souls  for  belief  and  prayer,” 

Said  the  South  to  the  North, 

“  That  stand  in  the  dark  on  the  lowest  stair 
While  affirming  of  God,  ‘  He  is  certainly  there,’  n 
Said  the  South  to  the  North. 

III. 

“  Yet  O,  for  the  skies  that  are  softer  and  higher,” 

Sighed  the  North  to  the  South  ; 

“  For  the  flowers  that  blaze  and  the  trees  that  aspii$. 

And  the  insects  made  of  a  song  or  a  fire  !  ” 

Sighed  the  North  to  the  South. 

“  And  O  for  a  seer  to  discern  the  same  !  ’ 

Sighed  the  South  to  the  North  ; 
u  For  a  poet’s  tongue  of  baptismal  flame 
To  call  the  tree  or  flower  by  its  name  !  ” 

Sighed  the  South  to  the  North. 


464 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


IV. 

The  North  sent  therefore  a  man  of  men 
As  a  grace  to  the  South  ; 

And  thus  to  Rome  came  Andersen  : 

“  Alas  !  but  must  you  take  him  again?  ” 

Said  the  South  to  the  North. 

The  sun  already  burnt  with  fervent  rays  ;  people  were  going 
out  to  the  hills,  and  Collin  and  I  started  on  our  home  journey. 
We  visited  Pisa,  and  spent  a  week  at  Florence.  From  Leg¬ 
horn  we  took  steamer  for  Genoa.  The  weather  was  stormy, 
the  sea  rolled  heavily,  and  we  were  all  sea-sick  ;  in  the  morning 
the  rain  came  pouring  down.  I  felt  very  unwell,  and  so  worn 
out  that  when  we  drew  near  Genoa  I  could  think  of  nothing 
but  how  to  reach  my  destination  and  go  that  day  to  Turin. 
As  we  drew  near  to  land,  volleys  from  cannon  announced  the 
sad  news  that  Cavour  was  dead. 

The  following  day  I  still  felt  unfit  for  travelling,  yet  hoped 
that  by  setting  out  in  the  morning  we  might  be  able  to  reach 
Turin  in  season  to  attend  Cavour’s  funeral.  We  reached 
there  in  the  afternoon  and  heard  that  it  had  already  taken 
place  the  evening  before.  His  picture  hung  in  all  the  picture 
shops,  and  I  bought  the  one  that  was  said  to  be  the  most  like 
him. 

Later  in  the  week  we  came  to  Milan,  and  from  the  cathe¬ 
dral  roof,  in  the  midst  of  beautiful  statues  of  saints  carved  in 
marble,  we  saw  the  sunlit  Alps  ;  and  before  the  diligence  car¬ 
ried  us  over  the  Simplon,  we  spent  a  few  days  of  sunshine 
and  moonlit  nights  at  Isola  Bella  in  Lago  Maggiore.  Our 
stay  in  Switzerland  was  longest  at  Montreux.  Here  was 
wrought  my  Wonder  Story  “The  Ice  Maiden.”  The  sad  acci¬ 
dent  that  befell  the  young  bridal  pair  on  their  honeymoon, 
when  they  visited  the  little  island  by  Villeneuve,  and  the 
bridegroom  was  drowned,  I  took  for  the  fact  that  should  be 
the  basis  of  a  story  in  which  I  would  show  the  Swiss  nature 
as  it  had  lain  in  my  thought  after  many  visits  to  that  glorious 
land. 

At  Lausanne  we  received  intelligence  from  home  that  old 
Mr.  Collin  lay  on  his  death-bed :  it  was  presumed  that  God 
would  already  have  called  him  away  when  we  should  receive 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


465 

our  letter,  and  so  we  were  bidden  not  to  hasten  our  journey 
home.  We  kept  on  northward,  and  spent  a  few  days  with 
friends  Auf  der  Mauer  at  Brunnen,  and  met  there  the  Librarian 
of  the  monastery  at  Einsiedeln,  Father  Gall-Mosel,  a  lovely 
and  spiritual  man.  The  monastery  itself  is  the  most  esteemed 
in  Switzerland,  and  much  visited  by  pilgrims  and  strangers 
from  Germany  and  France.  Einsiedeln  lies  about  a  mile 
away  from  the  high-road  between  Brunnen  and  the  Lake  of 
Zurich.  Collin  and  I  were  unwilling  to  pass  it  by,  and  reached 
it  just  on  the  day  of  the  celebration  of  the  one  thousandth 
year  of  the  establishment  of  the  monastery. 

The  little  town  was  filled  with  strangers,  who  gathered  in 
the  church,  which  was  gayly  dressed  with  flowers  and  candles 
and  inscriptions.  Many  collected  outside  in  the  place  by  the 
bubbling  springs  and  drank  of  the  water  of  each,  for  the  say¬ 
ing  goes  that  Christ  once  was  in  Einsiedeln  and  drank  of  the 
water,  but  of  which  spring  no  one  knows,  and  so  people  drink 
of  them  all. 

We  visited  my  acquaintance,  the  Librarian,  who  was  very 
friendly,  and  accompanied  by  several  young  ecclesiastics  took 
us  to  see  the  notable  things  in  the  convent,  and  carried  us  to 
the  church,  where  the  flower-decked  sarcophagus  of  the 
Founder  was  seen,  bearing  beautiful  memorial  inscriptions 
written  by  our  learned  guide.  We  saw  the  treasures  of  the 
library,  and  for  one  thing  an  old  Bible  in  Danish  translation, 
and  when  a  wish  was  expressed  for  a  newer  one,  I  promised 
to  furnish  it,  and  there  it  now  is. 

From  holiday  bright  Einsiedeln  we  came  to  Nuremberg. 
Here  also  was  a  festival ;  flags  were  waving  in  all  the  streets. 
There  was  a  musical  festival  going  on,  not  of  Minnesingers; 
but  of  the  choral  societies  of  our  time.  All  the  music  asso¬ 
ciations  of  the  different  Bavarian  towns  were  met  here  to  give 
an  immense  musical  festival.  The  people  from  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  all  flocked  to  it,  and  it  was  not  easy  to  find  a  place  at 
♦he  hotels  :  but  as  always,  I  was  in  luck  ;  I  found  the  snuggest 
little  chamber  in  the  world.  From  Nuremberg  we  came  to 
Brunswick,  and  here  too  the  flags  were  flying  from  the  houses : 
garlands  hung  round  about,  and  the  streets  were  bestrewn 
with  flowers.  The  town  was  celebrating  its  birthday,  a  cus 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


466 

tom  reaching  back  a  very  long  way.  I  believe  this  was  th3 
thousandth  year.  It  seemed  as  if  our  return  journey  was  to 
be  taken  only  through  towns  that  were  celebrating  some  fes¬ 
tival. 

At  the  Soro  station  Collin  and  I  separated,  he  to  go  to 
Copenhagen,  I  to  Ingemann’s.  Here  I  got  intelligence  of 
the  dear  old  Collin’s  death.  “  During  his  last  days  he  lay  in 
perfect  quiet,  recognizing  no  one ;  you  would  scarcely  have 
known  him,”  they  wrote.  I  went  immediately  to  town  to  be 
with  the  bereaved  ones. 

The  fire  is  out  on  the  hearth  at  home, 

And  sorrow  sits  in  the  family  room  ; 

Through  Jesus  to  God  thy  life  did  aspire  ; 

Here,  a  handful  of  ashes  —  there,  the  flaming  of  fire. 

So  I  sang ;  many  and  better  songs  there  were,  but  surely 
none  more  deeply  felt  than  mine  :  so  many  recollections  of 
deeds  and  words  moved  through  my  mind. 

I  went  into  town,  and  would  gladly  have  been  alone,  but 
all  the  carriages  were  filled,  except  one  in  which  sat  two 
ladies  ;  I  took  my  place  there.  The  elder  one  sat  still,  half 
asleep  in  the  corner,  the  younger  had  stretched  herself  out 
on  the  other  seat,  occupying  the  width  of  the  carriage,  and 
enjoyed  her  fruit  and  luncheon  :  she  looked  like  a  Spanish 
girl ;  her  black  eyes  shone  and  carried  on  an  entire  conversa¬ 
tion  before  she  began  to  speak. 

“  I  believe  I  know  you,”  said  she  in  French.  I  said  the 
same  to  her  and  asked  her  name. 

“  Pepitta,”  she  answered.  She  was  a  Spanish  danseuse  who 
the  year  before  had  been  overwhelmed  with  flowers  at  the 
Casino  Theatre.  I  gave  her  my  name,  and  she  told  the  elder 
one,  her  companion,  that  I  was  a  poet,  and  that  she  had  at  the 
Casino  acted  a  part  in  one  of  my  pieces,  where  she  spoke 
French  and  carried  on  a  Spanish  dance.  It  was  the  comedy 
‘‘  Ole  Lukoie.”  She  told  her  companion  the  contents  of  the 
piece  in  very  few  words.  “  There  is  a  young  chimney-sweep 
in  love  with  a  Spanish  da?iscuse ,  and  the  whole  thing  is  a 
dream.” 

“  Charmant”  said  the  old  lady.  But  I  was  not  in  the  mood 
to  carry  on  a  lively  conversation.  At  the  first  station  I  looked 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


467 

for  a  place  in  another  carriage,  and  excused  my  leaving  them 
by  explaining  that  I  had  found  friends  with  whom  I  wished 
to  travel. 

I  drew  near  Copenhagen,  and  went  to  that  home  of  homes 
where  were  gathered  the  children  and  children’s  children  of 
that  father  and  grandfather  who  lay  in  his  deep  sleep  of  death  : 
the  day  of  burial  followed  and  I  wrote  to  Ingemann  :  — - 

“  I  found  all  of  Collin’s  family  in  the  old  home  ;  they  were 
all  quiet,  but  profoundly  sad.  My  old  friend  lay  in  his  coffin  : 
he  looked  peaceful,  and  as  if  in  sleep  ;  a  sweet  calm  spread 
over  his  face.  I  dreaded  much  the  day  of  burial,  fearing  that 
I  should  be  too  much  overcome  in  the  church,  but  I  felt 
stronger  than  I  should  have  dared  believe.  Bishop  Bindes- 
boll’s  discourse  did  not  satisfy  me :  it  dwelt  too  long  upon  his 
political  life  and  on  King  Frederick  VI.  Pastor  Blodel  after¬ 
ward  spoke  a  few  words  at  the  grave  :  they  formed  an  excel¬ 
lent  supplement  to  the  Bishop’s  discourse,  giving  there  just 
what  should  be  said.  The  rest  of  the  day  I  spent  quite  alone, 
and  a  sad  time  it  was  to  me.  I  missed  that  which  I  had 
been  so  used  to  for  a  long  series  of  years,  the  daily  seeing  of 
old  Collin  and  talking  with  him.  The  house  is  now  strangely 
lonesome.  Since  I  came  home  two  acquaintances  besides 
have  died, — the  composer  Glasser  and  the  artisan  Gamst :  it  is 
strange  to  see  the  ranks  so  broken  in  upon :  now  am  I  myself 
in  the  first  ranks  of  the  march.” 

Time  passed  on  toward  Christmas :  I  had  during  my  jour¬ 
ney  and  after  my  return  home  worked  industriously,  and  when 
Christmas  came  there  was  published  a  new  volume  of  my 
stories.  “  The  Ice  Maiden,”  as  well  as  “  The  Butterfly,”  were 
both  written  in  Switzerland  ;  “  Psyche,”  however,  during  my 
stay  in  Rome.  An  incident  that  occurred  on  my  first  visit 
there  in  1833-34,  came  to  my  mind  and  gave  me  the  first 
suggestion  ;  a  young  nun  was  to  be  buried,  and  when  her 
grave  came  to  be  dug  there  was  found  a  beautiful  §tatue  of 
Bacchus.  “  The  Snail  and  the  Rosebush  ”  was  also  written 
in  Rome,  and  belongs  to  the  class  of  my  earlier  Wonder  Stories. 
I  dedicated  the  book  to  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. 

Christmas  was  spent  at  Holsteinborg,  where  I  wrote  the 
following  letter  to  Ingemann  :  — 


468 


THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE. 


“  Holsteinborg,  Christinas  Dayi  1861. 

“Dear  Friend,  —  My  chamber  is  right  up  against  the 
church.  I  can  walk  through  my  door  straight  to  the  pulpit.  The 
organ  is  playing,  the  singing  of  psalms  is  borne  in  upon  me  as 
I  write  this  letter.  There  is  a  pleasant  Christmas  festival  here, 
and  last  evening  there  was  great  delight  among  the  children. 
All  the  little  folks  were  most  happy  over  Christmas  and  its 
glory.  I  also  had  my  Christmas-table  with  many  things  on  it 
that  served  to  expound  my  stories.  The  cat  sat  on  the  ink¬ 
stand,  the  Nis  danced  with  the  penholder,  the  butterflies  flew 
in  Florentine  mosaic  on  the  paper  weight ;  my  little  girl  with 
matches  also  I  found  there.  I  had  many  thoughts  yesterday 
of  my  Christmas  times  in  childhood,  the  richest  in  memory  I 
have  ever  spent,  even  though  the  chamber  was  so  small  and  I 
had  no  Christmas-tree.  But  grits,  geese,  and  apple-pie  were 
never  lacking,  and  in  the  evening  there  were  two  candles  on 
the  table.  A  half  century  of  Christmas  memories  have  I ! 
How  wonderfully  am  I  still  borne  along.  Thanks  for  the  two 
happy  days  spent  with  you  and  your  wife.  Give  my  greetings 
to  Sophie  also  :  she  had  certainly  dressed  a  Christmas-tree 
for  you  and  concealed  it  down  in  the  cellar:  ‘You  should 
stay  till  Christmas  Eve,’  she  said  to  me. 

“  God  knows  whether  I  shall  be  in  Soro  next  Christmas  ; 
my  wish  is  to  travel  to  Spain  in  the  new  year.  I  must  always 
have  my  Christmas  dreams,  and  they  are  of  travel.  I  think 
of  Italy  or  of  Spain.  The  weather  is  mild,  but  I  would  rather 
have  clear  cold  air  and  signs  of  snow.  Last  year  it  was  so, 
with  glittering  snow  and  ice-clad  trees  ;  then  I  wrote  rr.y 
story  of  ‘  The  Snow  Man.’  This  year  my  muse  will  not 
visit  me.  May  a  good  and  happy  New  Year  fall  upon  all  of 
us  —  no  war,  no  cholera  !  Peace  and  health  abound  !  So 
live  well  and  heartily.  Your  faithful  and  devoted 

“  H.  C.  Andersen.'* 

1862. 

Immediately,  as  soon  as  the  year  began,  while  I  was  still 
out  in  the  country,  I  received  from  Ingemann  a  letter  full  of 
hearty  good-humor.  Ingemann  and  H.  C.  Orstec],  who  both 
were  fond  of  me,  stood  in  their  poetic  nature  quite  opposite 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  469 

to  one  another,  Orsted  demanding  of  right  strict  truth,  even 
when  it  was  contained  in  the  form  of  fancy. 

“  The  rational  in  rational  things  is  Truth,  the  rational  in 
fancy  is  Beauty,  the  rational  in  feeling  is  Goodness.”  So  he 
once  wrote  to  me  and  firmly  believed.  In  the  “  Monthly  Jour- 
nal  of  Literature,”  Orsted  had  handled  most  severely  Inge- 
mann’s  fanciful  poem,  “  Ole  Navnlos  ”  (“  Ole  Nameless  ”),  so 
severely  indeed  that  the  kind-hearted  philosopher  Sibbern  went 
to  the  defense  in  a  paper,  “  Orsted  and  Ingemann  ;  ”  these  two 
amiable  men  never  knew  or  met  each  other,  or  they  would  cer¬ 
tainly  have  felt  their  kinship  of  nature.  I  used  to  repeat  to 
each  the  sayings  of  the  other,  so  that  they  came  thus  to  have 
a  mutual  esteem.  Orsted  had  now  been  dead  several  years. 

In  a  letter  which  I  received  from  Ingemann  when  I  was  in 
the  country,  he  writes  :  “  I  was  this  morning  out  at  the  railway 
station  and  went  under  the  telegraph  wires  when  they  began 
to  hum.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Can’t  I  have  leave  to  go  on 
thinking?  what  does  H.  C.  Orsted  want?  The  wires  buzzed 

and  talked.  What  in  the  world  is  going  on  up  there  ?  Then 

•• 

I  felt  it  run  through  me.  Orsted  knows  that  1  am  going  to 
write  to  Andersen  to-day  and  so  he  is  saying,  Greet  him  for 
me  !  So  you  see  I  have  a  greeting  for  you  from  H.  C.  Or¬ 
sted.” 

It  was  the  last  letter  I  had  from  my  dear  Ingemann,  and  in 
the  greeting  he  sent  me  I  perceive  the  communion  and  affec¬ 
tionate  intercourse  which  there  really  was  between  these  two 
souls.  God  willed  that  they  soon  should  meet.  For  the  rest, 
the  year  began  happily  for  me.  The  stories  published  at 
Christmas  brought  me  many  words  of  appreciation,  and  here 
are  two  instances. 

King  Frederick  VII.  always  preferred  to  hear  me  read  my 
stories,  not  only  at  Fredricksborg,  as  I  have  related,  but  several 
times  I  was  summoned  to  Christiansborg.  Early  in  February 
I  read  thus  to  the  king  and  a  little  company  whom  he  had  col¬ 
lected  about  him  the  four  stories.  “  The  Ice  Maiden  ”  espe¬ 
cially  interested  and  moved  him,  for  he  had  himself  when  a 
prince  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  Switzerland.  A  few  days 
after  the  reading  I  received  the  folic  wing  letter  from  his  ma¬ 
jesty,  written  by  his  own  hand  .  — 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


47° 

“  My  good  Andersen,  —  It  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to  send 
vou  my  thanks  for  the  happiness  you  afforded  me  by  reading 
your  delightful  stories  the  other  evening,  and  I  can  only  say 
thus  much,  that  I  congratulate  my  country  and  its  king  that 
they  have  such  a  poet  as  you.  Your  well  wishing, 

“Frederick  R. 

“  Christiansborg,  February  13,  1862/’ 

I  was  exceedingly  pleased  with  this  kind,  royal  letter,  which 
I  treasure  among  the  best  of  my  souvenirs.  With  the  letter 
came  at  the  same  time  a  gold  box  with  his  majesty’s  name 
engraved  on  it. 

I  received  a  letter  from  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  in  Rome. 
He  was  much  pleased  with  the  dedication,  and  with  every  sin¬ 
gle  story,  especially  with  “  The  Ice  Maiden.”  He  wrote  :  — 

“  ‘  The  Ice  Maiden  ’  begins  as  if  it  were  rejoicing  and  singing 
in  the  free  air,  by  the  pine-trees,  and  the  blue  water,  and  the 
Swiss  cottages.  You  have  sketched  such  a  boy  as  I  would 
gladly  have  for  a  brother,  and  all  the  scenery  is  so  distinct 
with  •  Babette,  the  miller,  and  the  cats,  that  it  is  as  if  I  had 
crossed  the  country  and  seen  them  all  with  my  own  eyes.  I 
was  so  stirred  that  I  must  needs  cry  aloud,  and  had  to  make 
several  stopping  places.  But,  thou  dear,  gentle  man,  how 
could  you  have  the  heart  to  make  such  a  violent  ending  for 
us  to  this  lovely  picture  !  The  thought  that  fashions  the  last 
portion  has  something  divine  in  it,  —  so  it  impresses  me,  the 
thought  that  two  people  should  be  separated  at  the  very  high¬ 
est  point  of  their  happiness  ;  still  more  that  you  showed  clearly 
how  as  when  a  sudden  breeze  ruffles  the  still  water,  so  there 
dwelt  in  the  souls  of  both  that  which  could  overthrow  their 
happiness  ;  but  that  you  should  have  the  courage  to  do  this 
with  these  two  of  all  people  !  ”  The  letter  closes,  “  Dear,  dear 
Andersen,  how  much  I  have  loved  you,  yet  I  oelieved  confi¬ 
dently  that  you  neither  rightly  understood  me  nor  cared  for 
me,  although  with  your  good  heart  you  would  gladly  do  both  * 
but  now  I  see  clearly  what  a  happy  mistake  I  made,  and  so  J 
have  been  deceived  into  doubling  my  affection  for  you  !  ” 

I  was  exceedingly  pleased  over  Bjornson’s  letter,  happy  a. 
his  friendship  and  affection  for  me,  which  he  expressed  in  suck 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


471 


lively  terms.  I  may  hint,  too,  at  another  letter  which  I  had 
from  a  young  unknown  student  from  one  of  the  Provinces, 
because  of  the  poetry  and  naivete  of  the  letter.  There  was 
inclosed  in  it  a  four-leaved  clover,  dry  and  pressed.  He 
wrote  of  this  that  when  he  was  a  little  boy  and  read  for  the 
first  time  my  stories,  he  was  delighted  with  them  ;  and  his 
mother  told  him  that  Andersen  had  known  dark  days  and 
gone  through  much,  which  so  saddened  the  little  fellow  when 
he  heard  it  that  he  immediately  went  into  the  fields  and  found 
a  four-leaved  clover,  which  he  had  heard  brought  good  luck 
with  it ;  so  he  bade  his  mother  send  this  to  Andersen  that  he 
might  be  happy.  The  clover  was  not  sent ;  the  mother  put  it 
away  in  her  psalm-book.  “  Now  several  years  have  gone  by,” 
read  the  letter ;  “  I  am  become  a  student  ;  my  mother  died  last 
year,  and  I  found  the  four-leaved  clover  in  her  psalm-book.  I 
have  just  been  reading  your  new  story  ‘  The  Ice  Maiden,’  and 
I  read  it  with  the  same  pleasure  as  when  in  my  childhood  I 
read  your  stories.  Fortune  has  favored  you,  and  you  do  not 
need  the  four-leaved  clover,  but  I  send  it  to  you  and  tell  you 
this  little  incident.” 

This  was  about  the  substance  of  the  letter,  which  I  have 
lost.  I  do  not  remember  the  young  man’s  name,  and  have 
not  been  able  to  thank  him,  but  now  in  late  years,  perhaps  he 
will  read  here  my  thanks  and  my  remembrance  of  him. 

I  sat  reading  and  writing  one  evening  late  in  February,  when 
the  newspaper  came  and  I  read  :  “  Bernhard  Severin  Ingemann 
is  dead.”  I  was  overwhelmed,  and  this  letter  bore  my  grief :  — 

“  Dear  blessed  Madame  Ingemann,  —  I  first  heard  this 
evening  by  the  paper  what  God  had  willed.  I  am  grieved, 
but  in  grief  only  for  you  ;  you  are  so  lonely,  for  he  has  gone 
away  from  you.  It  must  be  to  you  as  a  sad  dream,  from  which 
you  long  to  wake  and  see  him  again  by  you.  Our  Lord  is  so 
good,  only  what  is  best  for  us  comes  to  pass,  —  that  I  believe  ; 
I  cannot  let  go  the  faith.  I  would  that  I  might  have  seen  him 
once  more  and  have  talked  with  him  ;  we  were  both  of  us  so 
young,  and  yet  now  all  at  once  after  these  years  old  enough  to 
go  with  him.  I  long  for  him.  There  is  a  life  after  this  ;  there 
must  be  if  God  be  God.  There  is  a  happiress  for  out 


472 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


thoughts,  so  that  I  cannot  be  grieved  except  for  you,  my  dear 
noble  friend,  if  I  may  dare  to  call  you  thus.  Do  not  be  at  the 
pains  to  answer  this  letter;  you  have  no  mind  for  that  now  ;  I 
know  that  you  think  kindly  on  me.  Greet  Sophie,  your  maid  , 
she,  too,  is  affected,  I  know,  for  she  was  so  attached  to  him  and 
he  to  her.  God  give  you  strength,  and  raise  you  through  days 
of  peace  to  him,  who  is  your  dear,  kind,  never  to  be  forgotten 
one.  “  With  fervent  sympathy, 

“  H.  C.  Andersen.” 

Early  in  March  the  fields  lay  white  with  snow,  but  the  sky 
was  charmingly  clear,  the  sun  shone,  and  I  took  the  cars  out 
to  Soro,  for  it  was  the  day  of  burial.  I  stood  in  that  home, 
where,  from  my  school  days  at  Slagelse  until  now  an  old  man,  I 
had  spent  such  happy  hours,  where  our  talk  had  gone  on  in 
earnest  and  in  jest.  Madame  Ingemann  sat  quiet,  meek  in 
sorrow,  while  the  old,  faithful  maid,  Sophie,  burst  into  tears  on 
meeting  me,  and  spoke  of  her  beloved  dead,  his  kind  words 
and  gentle  talk. 

From  the  academy  the  coffin  was  carried  to  the  church,  a 
great  procession  of  mourners  accompanying  it,  being  repre¬ 
sentatives  of  all  classes  of  the  community.  Many  peasants 
followed  :  for  them  he  had  indeed  spread  open  the  history  of 
Denmark  ;  his  writings  so  told  that  story  that  the  heart  beat 
quicker  on  learning  it. 

The  coffin  sank  into  the  grave  amidst  the  twittering  of  little 
birds,  as  the  sun  shone  down.  We  have  a  picture  of  the  fu¬ 
neral,  and  I  wrote  these  words : 

“Bernhard  Severin  Ingemann. 

“  By  his  cradle  stood  the  Genius  of  Denmark  and  the  Angel 
of  Poetry,  who  looked  through  the  child’s  gentle  eyes  into  a 
heart  that  could  not  grow  old  with  his  years ;  the  soul  of  the 
child  would  never  depart,  but  he  was  to  dwell  as  a  gardener 
in  the  garden  of  poetry  in  our  Danish  land,  and  they  gave 
him  a  greeting  and  a  consecration  by  a  kiss. 

“  Wherever  he  looked  there  fell  a  sunbeam  ;  the  dry  branch 
which  he  touched  put  forth  leaves  and  flowers  ;  he  broke  forth 
in  song  as  the  birds  of  heaven  shig  in  gladness  and  iuno 
cence. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


473 


“  From  the  field  of  popular  faith,  from  the  moss-grown  graves 
of  decaying  time  he  took  his  seed-corn,  and  placed  it  by  his 
heart  and  brain  ;  the  seed  thus  planted  grew  and  thrived  till 
it  became  great  in  the  peasant’s  low  cottage,  wound  itself  about 
under  the  roof  like  the  St.  John’s  wort,  and  put  out  broad 
leaves  ;  every  leaf  was  a  leaf  from  history  for  the  peasant,  that 
stirred  in  the  deep  winter  evening  over  the  listening  circle  ; 
they  heard  of  the  old  times  in  Denmark  and  of  the  Danish 
mind,  and  then  their  Danish  hearts  were  lifted  in  gladness  and 
love. 

“  He  laid  the  seed-corn  behind  the  sounding  organ  pipes,  and 
the  tree  of  singing  cherubs  wafted  its  branches,  and  the  hymn 
sang  itself — peace  in  the  heart,  gladness  in  God. 

“  In  the  dry  soil  of  every-day  life  he  planted  the  flowering  root 
of  the  wonder  story,  and  it  burst  forth,  unrolling  in  variegated 
beauty  and  striking  oddity.  He  travelled  with  the  storks  to 
King  Pharaoh’s  land,  learned  their  morning  and  evening  song, 
and  understood  every  single  word.  Whatever  he  planted 
grew,  because  it  had  struck  root  in  the  hearts  of  the  people. 
He  spoke  in  their  tones,  in  the  Danish  speech  ;  his  native 
land’s  soul  was  the  might  of  his  sword,  and  his  pure  thoughts 
are  like  the  fresh  blowing  sea-breeze.  He  has  had  his  last 
Christmas.  His  life  on  earth  is  ended,  his  body  is  like  cast-ofif 
clothing  ;  he  was  borne  away,  yet  still  he  held  fast  by  the  hand 
of  one  —  he  could  not  let  go  that,  the  faithful  hand  of  his  wife, 
and  he  knew  that  it  was  wet  with  tears,  and  in  that  moment 
she  was  with  him,  to  be  with  him  when  he  should  awaken. 

‘‘Awake  is  he  now,  but  she  sits  alone  in  that  home  where 
every  one  who  entered  grew  gentler  and  better  ;  she  sits  in 
'onging  for  him :  the  hour  until  the  time  of  meeting  comes  is 
as  one  of  our  minutes  ;  that  she  knows  ;  ‘  thanksgiving  and 
love  ’  rise  from  her  lips,  and  from  the  young  hearts  of  the 
Danish  people. 

“  That  which  may  disappear  and  decay  is  laid  in  the  grave, 
u  ider  the  sound  of  church-bells  and  the  singing  of  psalms 
and  the  tears  of  love  ;  what  never  can  die  is  with  God  ;  what 
He  planted  is  with  us  for  our  joy  and  blessing.” 

My  spring-time  begar  early  in  May  when  my  manor  home* 


474 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


life  began.  I  was  at  the  homelike  Basnos,  dear  Holsteinborg, 
and  the  music  loving  Lerchenborg.  Great  plans  of  travel 
were  laid,  for  I  felt  a  strong  desire  to  visit  Spain  :  once  had 
I  stood  at  the  entrance,  but  the  summer  heat  and  sickness  had 
kept  me  back.  Now  I  looked  for  a  better  season.  I  had  in 
jest  said  to  my  young  friend  Jonas  Collin,  that  if  I  were  to 
win  the  prize  in  the  lottery,  then  we  should  travel  together  tG 
Spain,  and  even  slip  over  to  Africa  ;  but  I  did  not  win  it  and 
never  should,  but  must  get  my  share  in  another  way.  My 
Danish  publisher,  Reitzel,*Said  to  me  one  day  that  my  collected 
writings  were  sold  out :  he  would  give  me  a  new  edition ;  for 
the  first  I  had  received  only  three  hundred  rix- dollars,  but  now 
he  offered  me  three  thousand.  It  was  as  unexpected  as  a  lot¬ 
tery  prize  ;  it  was  just  as  welcome,  too,  and  Collin  and  I  set 
out. 

I  took  the  morning  train  out  to  Soro  to  spend  an  hour  or 
two  with  Madame  Ingemann.  She  looked  unwontedly  bright, 
and  felt  strengthened,  she  told  me,  by  a  delightful  dream  which 
God  hath  sent  her  the  night  before.  She  had  seen  Ingemann 
looking  so  young  and  beautiful  and  exceedingly  happy,  and 
then  they  had  talked  with  one  another.  Her  eyes  shone  as  she 
spoke  of  it.  All  in  the  room,  for  the  rest,  was  as  of  old  ;  it  was 
as  if  Ingemann  had  gone  out  only  for  a  walk  and  every  mo¬ 
ment  be  might  come  home  again.  She  talked  to  me  of  the 
forthcoming  edition  of  his  writings,  his  biography  from  the 
time  of  his  student  life,  which  I  had  prepared  for  one  vol¬ 
ume.  She  asked  my  advice  in  one  thing  and  another,  but 
when  we  talked  of  the  days  when  they  had  their  life  together, 
the  tears  would  come  into  her  eyes. 

I  went  to  the  church-yard.  Just  at  the  entrance  was  a  grave 
where  upon  the  stone  was  written  a  name  well  known  in  Danish 
literature — Christian  Molbech.  In  “The  Story  of  my  Life  ” 
X  have  spoken  of  him  ;  he  was  severe  in  his  judgment  of  my 
books  and  also  of  the  Ingemann  romances.  Time  changed 
all  that  bitterness,  and  we  have  come  to  understand  each 
other.  A  little  incident  which  Ingemann  told  me  came  into 
my  mind.  Shortly  after  Molbech’s  death,  Ingemann  went  out 
in  the  evening  in  Soro,  going  home  slowly  after  some  company, 
The  church-door  was  open  and  in  the  doorway  stood  the  pries* 
Zeiithen,  in  full  priestly  dress. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


475 


“  I  am  waiting,”  said  he,  “for  the  funeral  of  old  Molbech  j 
it  is  to  come  in  a  few  minutes  to  the  church.”  Just  then  came 
along  an  ammunition  wagon,  and  two  young  men  clad  jn  their 
capes  followed  ;  they  were  Molbech’s  sons.  The  coffin  was 
borne  into  the  church  ;  Zeiithen  and  Ingemann  followed  after 
the  sons  ;  that  was  all  the  procession.  Zeiithen  spoke  a  few 
words  over  the  coffin,  and  Ingemann  was  glad  that  he  was 
there.  With  the  same  feeling  I  now  stood  here,  and  so  I  made 
my  only  visit  to  the  church-yard  where  Ingemann’s  grave  was. 
On  the  stone  is  his  medallion  portrait.  One  often  sees,  they 
say,  little  children  lift  one  another  up  to  kiss  the  poet’s  mouth  : 
a  painter  might  make  a  pretty  picture  from  this  incident. 

From  Corsor  began  my  journey  with  Jonas  Collin.  We 
were  to  take  the  route  that  lay  by  Flensborg,  because  the  next 
day,  July  25th,  the  monument  over  the  fallen  soldiers  was  to  be 
dedicated  in  the  cemetery ;  it  was  the  celebrated  lion  done  by 
Bissen.  ‘  There  was  a  great  gathering  of  men  under  waving 
Dannebrog  flags.  I  had  earlier  visited  the  graves  of  the  fallen 
heroes.  These  had  now  been  made  level,  but  no  boundaries 
disturbed.  A  great  mound  had  been  raised  in  the  centre, 
and  a  memorial  stone  bore  the  names  of  the  fallen  ;  here  also 
stood  Bissen’s  lion,  not  yet  unveiled.  I  took  my  place  among 
the  grave-stones.  Students  from  the  Danish  high-school  were 
collected  and  sang  a  song.  The  weather  was  fine,  the  sun 
shone,  but  it  almost  blew  a  gale.  It  was  for  me  as  if  the  de¬ 
parted  souls  were  sighing  in  the  tree-tops.  Twenty-five  guns 
were  fired,  the  veil  fell,  and  the  lion  stood  uncovered,  looking 
out  over  the  graves.  What  if  an  enemy  were  ever  seen  here 
by  us  —  was  the  thought  that  suddenly  passed  through  my 
mind. 

We  approached  Brunnen  by  Frankfort,  and  there  we  were  to 
meet  Collin’s  parents  and  sister,  who  were  staying  here  on  their 
way  to  Italy.  At  the  Lake  of  Lucerne  we  were  overtaken  by 
one  of  those  mighty  Swiss  storms.  A  John  came  down  from 
the  mountains  and  lashed  the  lake  into  great  waves.  The 
.captain  could  not  bring  the  boat  to  her  wharf,  the  breakers 
dashed  over  the  side,  and  so  a  strong  boat  rowed  by  several 
men  came  out  to  take  us  to  land,  a  little  way  from  the  town, 
where  a  river  emptied  into  the  lake  and  there  was  a  little  har 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


476 

bor.  But  before  we  could  reach  it  we  had  quite  a  long  pas- 
sage  to  make  where  the  breakers  were  tumbling.  The  water 
dashed  upon  the  shore,  and  we  did  not  dare  approach  till  we 
were  just  opposite  the  mouth  of  the  river  ;  then  we  came 
nearer  and  nearer,  till  we  were  on  the  breakers,  where  the  men 
plied  their  oars,  which  creaked  and  bent,  but  in  a  moment  after¬ 
ward  we  were  in  still  water  in  the  river,  and  received  by 
friends,  acquaintances,  and  strangers. 

Days  hot  as  African  ones  afflicted  the  usually  fresh  and 
pretty  Brunnen.  Auf  der  Mauer  had  given  up  his  hotel  to  a 
stranger,  and  was  living  with  his  sister  in  a  pleasant  place  near 
the  town.  I  heard  Agatha  sing  again  ;  her  brother  aftd  Father 
Gall-Mosel,  the  librarian  from  Einsiedeln,  accompanied  her. 

With  Collin’s  family  we  took  the  route  over  the  Brunnen 
Pass  to  Interlaken.  As  we  rose,  the  air  became  fresher  and 
the  fields  were  green  as  in  early  spring.  Giessbach  was  visited 
and  the  glacier  at  Grindelwald. 

In  Berne  there  was  living  an  ecclesiastic  who  was  a  son  of 
the  Danish  poet  Baggesen  and  Sophie  Haller,  daughter  of  the 
Swiss  poet.  Every  time  I  have  travelled  through  Berne  I 
have  been  wont  to  visit  the  friendly  old  man,  who  has  great 
sympathy  for  Denmark,  though  he  cannot  speak  the  Danish 
language  in  which  his  father  sang  his  beautiful  and  his  witty 
songs.  Our  longest  stay  in  Switzerland  was,  however,  to  be  at 
Montreux.  The  beauty  of  nature  thereabout  I  have  recorded 
in  a  poem,  or  rather  a  letter  to  the  poet  Christian  Winther  at 
Copenhagen,  who  intended  to  bring  out  a  New  Year’s  annual 
from  the  Danish  writers,  and  wished  a  contribution  from  me 
also. 

Montreux,  August  30,  1862. 

A  poem  askest  thou  ?  I’ve  none  to  give, 

Else  would  I  send  my  very  best. 

Here  in  Montreux  the  laurel  grows,  but  poems  —  none  ; 

The  last  was  Byron’s  —  Byron’s  on  Chillon. 

Nature  herself  is  here  the  poem, 

And  in  my  heart  she  rhymes  anew- 
I  cannot  paint  the  evening  on  the  lake, 

Where  the  water  shimmers  in  purple  and  blue  — 

An  airy  rose-leaf  with  the  sky  for  a  gold  ground. 

Like  mighty  choral  seats  in  church, 

The  crags  rise  high,  crags  upon  crags, 


THE  STCRY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


477 


With  wooded  slopes  for  drapery  ; 

And  far  away  the  highest  towers 
A  mount1  with  lasting  snow  for  altar  cloth. 

Here  is  a  peace,  an  evening  charm, 

A  color  play  no  painter  gives. 

And  yet  for  all  this  splendid  show 
My  harp  hangs  voiceless  and  unstrung, 

Nor  can  the  upland  air  awake  its  tones  ; 

V  ain  is  my  heart’s  touch  on  its  strings  ; 

They  lie  as  though  in  slumber  deep, 

Sleeping  to  gather  strength  for  sounding  forth 
With  mightier  voice  and  newer  tones. 

When  I  shall  enter  soon  the  glorious  land, 

Where  glowing  pomegranates  shine  midst  laurel  leaves. 

Growing  in  wildness  ’neath  the  Southern  sun,  — 

That  land  of  the  Cid,  Cervantes’s  father-land,  — 

There  pray  I  God  to  grant  poetic  grace 
That  shall  awake  the  silent  strings 
And  carry  music  home  to  our  green  isles, 

Where  the  beech  casts  its  shade  over  giant  graves  ; 

Fata  Morgana  from  the  garden  of  Granada. 

Spain  was  our  destination.  As  soon  as  we  entered  French 
territory,  Jonas  Collin  and  I  separated  from  his  parents  and 
sister,  who  went  by  Chambery  to  Italy;  we  by  Lyons,  Nismes, 
and  Narbonne  to  Spain.  On  the  sixth  of  September,  the  very 
day  when  I  first  came  to  Copenhagen,  the  first  also  that  I 
came  to  Italy,  on  this  day  was  I  to  enter  Spain  also.  I  had 
not  so  arranged  it ;  circumstances  had  ordered  it  should  be  so, 
and  so  the  sixth  of  September  has  become  one  of  the  white 
days  of  my  life. 

What  I  saw,  felt,  and  experienced  I  have  written  under  the 
title  “  In  Spain,”  and  here  I  give  only  a  few  short  notes.  From 
Gerona  we  went  slowly  by  rail  in  the  evening  to  Barcelona,  with 
its  glittering  cafe's  that  quite  outdo  anything  of  the  kind  that 
Paris  has  to  show.  The  great  Inquisition  house  stood  looking 
grimly ;  the  monasteries,  as  everywhere  in  Spain,  have  been 
changed  into  warehouses  or  hospitals.  I  saw  for  the  first  time 
a  bull-fight,  not  bloody,  however,  as  afterward  I  saw  in  the 
South,  where  the  bull  thrust  his  sharp  horns  into  the  belly  of 
a  horse  and  ripped  it  up  so  that  the  entrails  rushed  out  —  a 
sight  that  made  me  fain  \  In  Barcelona  I  was  witness  to  the 

1  Dent  de  Midi. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


478 

tremendous  power  of  a  rain  storm  ;  the  mountain  streams 
swelled  into  tearing  floods  that  broke  down  every  boundary 
and  washed  over  railway  and  highway,  and  swelled  through 
the  town  gates  over  Barcelona’s  principal  street  with  whirls  of 
water  that  filled  the  houses ;  in  the  churches  the  priests  stood 
up  to  their  waists  in  water  singing  the  mass. 

For  more  than  a  mile  out  to  sea  I  saw  the  water  of  a  coffee 
color  from  the  fresh  ets  that  poured  in.  In  delightful  sunny 
weather  we  went  ty  5 (earner  over  the  quiet  sea  to  Grao,  a 
suburb  of  Valencia.  We  were  as  in  a  great  orchard.  The 
whole  plain  about  Valencia  was  fragrant  and  beautiful  with 
groves  of  lemon  and  apple-trees  ;  crowded  vineyards  too,  with 
rich  bunches  of  grapes,  flourished  here  in  the  warm,  ruddy 
earth.  A  few  days’  stay  here,  and  the  same  in  Alicante,  and 
we  travelled  to  the  palm-tree  town,  the  high,  romantic  Elche, 
where  we  saw  for  the  first  time  the  gypsy  folk  as  they  live  in 
Spain,  and  as  they  appear  in  the  neighborhood  of  Murcia. 

It  was  the  last  of  September,  and  the  sun  still  burned  as  if 
it  would  have  the  grain  all  thoroughly  cooked.  In  Cartagena, 
whence  we  were  to  go  by  steamer  to  Malaga,  there  was  no  re¬ 
lief  ;  the  air  was  red-hot,  the  wind  was  red-hot ;  the  rain  that 
we  had  to  mingle  these  was  gentle,  lukewarm  rain  ;  all  nature 
and  mankind  were  beautiful  indeed — and  red-hot.  My  bal¬ 
cony  overhung  the  narrow  street,  so  near  the  neighboring 
houses  that  the  nearest  one  touched  it,  and  I  involuntarily 
looked  straight  into  it,  and  immediately  put  what  I  saw  into 
song. 

The  night  before  we  were  to  take  the  steamer  to  Malaga, 
there  blew  such  a  gale  that  the  trees  were  torn  up  by  the  roots. 
I  felt  a  good  deal  of  concern  about  the  passage,  but  the  steam¬ 
er’s  departure  and  arrival  were  fixed  things,  and  I  had  r.o 
choice,  so  I  went  on  board  with  Collin.  Indeed  I  am  Fortune’3 
child,  and  this  I  said  before  we  left  port  ;  for  the  waves  subsided, 
;he  sea  was  as  quiet  as  a  piece  of  silk,  and  so  in  the  most  de¬ 
lightful  night  we  slipped  over  the  bright  water,  and  in  the 
early  morning  came  in  sight  of  Malaga,  with  its  wmte  houses, 
its  great  cathedral,  and  its  lofty  Gibraltar,  once  the  Moors 
fastness. 

In  towns  that  lie  by  the  sea-side  I  always  feel  myself  at  onc« 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


479 

at  home,  and  how  much  here  filled  and  possessed  my  mind  !  — 
the  sweet  Moorish  memories,  the  eternally  youthful,  charming 
country,  and  all  the  beauty  of  the  Andalusian  women.  We 
can  be  transported  at  a  grand  statue,  a  lovely  picture ;  how 
much  more  then  at  that  picture  in  womanhood  which  comes 
straight  from  God.  I  was  amazed,  and  stopped  in  the  street 
to  look  at  these  royally  moving  daughters  of  beauty,  their 
eyes  shining  beneath  the  long  black  eyelashes,  their  delicate 
hands  playing  gracefully  with  the  fan.  It  was  beauty  from 
God  shown  in  humanity  —  a  fairer  thing  to  see  than  statue  01 
picture. 

One  day  our  Danish  Consul  took  Collin  and  myself  out  to 
the  Protestant  burial-ground  at  Malaga:  it  was  a  paradisi¬ 
acal  spot.  I  would  not,  however,  have  mentioned  this  visit 

,  • 

again,  were  it  not  that  the  sketch  which  I  gave  of  it  in  my 
book,  “  In  Spain,”  called  forth  a  singular  correction.  I  wrote, 
“In  the  centre  of  all  this  vegetation  was  a  neat  small  house, 
within  which  refreshments  were  to  be  had  ;  pretty  children 
with  laughing  eyes  were  playing  there.” 

It  was  for  this  passage,  after  my  book  was  published  and 
translated  into  English,  that  I  received  a  setting  right  that  as¬ 
tonished  me  exceedingly.  A  lady  in  London  had  read  the 
book,  and  felt  herself  disagreably  affected  by  the  rather  incor¬ 
rect  translation  of  “  Refreshments  were  to  be  had  within  :  ” 
she  had  written  to  a  relative  in  Malaga  for  an  explanation 
of  it  ;  the  person  written  to  addressed  himself  to  one  of  the 
gentlemen  whom  I  had  known ;  and  he  in  turn  applied  to 
the  Danish  Consul,  who  spoke  to  the  family  in  the  pretty 
little  house  at  the  cemetery,  and  asked  if  any  one  here  had  for 
pay  furnished  refreshments  to  a  stranger  ;  and  when  it  appeared 
that  none  had  been  thus  sold,  I  was  bidden  to  strike  out  in  the 
next  edition  of  my  book,  “  In  Spain,”  what  I  had  before  written, 
“Refreshments  were  to  be  had  within.”  The  words  flowed 
from  my  pen ;  I  had  no  thought  of  these  being  an  offense  to 
any  one. 

I  remember  distinctly  that  visit  to  the  cemetery.  The  air 
was  warm ;  I  was  tired  and  thirsty,  and  asked  our  guide,  there¬ 
fore,  if  it  were  not  possible  to  get  something  here  to  refresh 
one ;  he  took  me  into  the  little  house,  and  the  kind  man  there 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


480 

gave  me  fruit  or  ice-water,  I  forget  which,  but  it  certainly  was 
not  paid  for.  I  ought  to  have  added  that  in  my  book  and  so 
not  have  scandalized  the  pious  lady,  nor,  what  concerns  me 
more,  have  caused  the  good  man  who  had  compassion  on  me 
to  be  annoyed  by  an  investigation  into  this  thing. 

Collin  and  I  spent  a  week  in  Malaga,  from  which  place  we 
desired  to  go  back  again  to  Gibraltar ;  but  first  Granada  was 
to  be  visited,  where  people  had  made  great  preparation  to  re¬ 
ceive  the  Queen,  who  was  entering  Andalusia  for  the  first  time. 

Granada  with  its  Alhambra  was  to  be  the  bright  spot  in  our 
Spanish  journey.  The  evening  came  ;  we  sat  in  the  diligence 
drawn  by  ten  mules  with  jingling  bells  ;  the  whip  cracked,  we 
started  off  by  the  Alameda,  along  the  bed  of  a  stream  and  up 
the  heights,  from  which  we  looked  off  on  to  Malaga,  shining 
with  its  many  lights.  The  air  became  heavy,  sharp  lightning 
flashed,  and  just  then  a  couple  of  armed  men  looked  into  the 
coach.  I  thought  at  once  of  an  attack,  but  it  was  only  our 
guard  against  highwaymen,  —  gens  d’armes  who  saw  us  safely 
over  the  dangerous  parts  of  the  road.  Passing  by  Loja  we 
came  the  next  forenoon  to  Granada,  where  we  had  previously 
engaged  apartments. 

From  my  countryman  in  Barcelona,  Herr  Schierbach,  J 
brought  a  letter  to  his  Spanish  brother-in-law,  Colonel  Don 
Jose  Laramendi,  a  lively,  amiable  man,  unwearied  in  his  atten¬ 
tions  to  Collin  and  myself.  We  went  with  him  to  see  and  study 
beautiful  and  interesting  things,  which  otherwise  we  should 
never  have  been  allowed  to  see.  The  Alhambra  received  our 
first  attention  ;  but  we  came  at  an  unfortunate  time,  for  the  vel¬ 
vet  trappings  and  tasteless  decoration  hung  there,  on  the  occa¬ 
sion  of  the  Queen’s  near  visit,  made  it  lose  its  peculiar  beauty. 

The  ninth  of  October  the  Queen  made  her  entrance  into 
Granada,  and  never  since  the  time  of  Isabella  I.  had  there 
been  here  any  such  affair ;  for  six  nights  and  days  Granada 
was  indeed  a  fairy  town.  The  church-bells  rang  ;  dancing  girls, 
with  castanets  and  curious  instruments,  went  dancing  through 
the  streets ;  bands  of  music  played  everywhere  ;  the  banners 
waved  :  “  Long  live  the  Queen  !  ”  Roses  were  torn  leaf  from 
leaf  and  fell  from  the  balconies  like  a  shower  of  flowers  ovei 
the  Queen,  who  could  be  told  for  a  queen  right  away  by  every 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


481 

shild,  for  she  wore  a  gold  crown  and  was  dressed  in  purple. 
In  the  evening  and  night  it  was  as  if  there  hung  over  the 
streets  a  cloud  of  variegated  humming-birds. 

After  the  Queen’s  departure  to  Malaga,  and  the  festivities 
were  over,  Collin  and  I  moved  our  quarters  to  the  Alhambra, 
in  the  “  Fonda  de  los  siete  Suebos,”  which  is  close  by  the  walls 
of  the  Alhambra,  hard  by  the  walled-up  gate  through  which 
the  Moorish  king  Boabdil  rode  out  to  do  battle  against  Ferdi¬ 
nand  and  Isabella,  who  conquered  him  and  drove  him  out  with 
his  Moorish  people. 

I  read  Washington  Irving’s  “  Alhambra  ”  here  for  the  third 
time :  the  dead  became  living  ;  the  departed  came  again.  I 
could  every  day  visit  the  Moorish  halls,  and  wander  in  the  Sul¬ 
tan’s  court.  There  was  a  scent  of  roses  here,  like  a  poem 
strayed  from  those  old  times  :  the  clear  water  fell  with  the  same 
rush  and  roar,  the  ancient  mighty  cypresses,  dumb  witnesses 
to  the  voice  of  speech  and  song,  stood  with  fresh  green  leaves 
in  the  sunlit  air  which  I  was  breathing. 

Through  tears,  as  when  I  first  left  Rome,  I  took  my  leave 
of  the  Alhambra,  where  I  had  been  happy,  and  where  I  had 
felt  a  profound  melancholy,  passing  through  many  swingings 
to  and  fro  in  my  soul,  feeling  myself  afflicted  and  grieved,  at 
what?  —  Yes,  these  very  memories  are  now  leaving  me:  it  is 
good  to  forget,  better  often  than  to  remember,  yet  best  of  all 
to  come  to  a  true  understanding. 

I  marked  my  departure  by  these  words :  — 

ALHAMBRA. 

Like  an  ALolian  harp  broken  in  two, 

But  hanging  still  on  Darro’s  hilly  banks, 

I  see  thee  rich  in  ornament  and  grace, 

Alhambra !  though  thy  greatest  beauty  lies 
In  the  soul-stirring  memories  of  the  past. 

What  tones  still  issue  from  thy  fragile  strings  ? 

Sweet  tones  of  love,  mingling  with  warlike  sounds, 

Clashing  of  swords  that  to  siroccos  swell. 

Ah  !  broken  is  that  harp,  but  still  it  hangs 
Yonder,  amidst  the  weeping  cypresses, — 

It  is  Alhambra  ;  glorious  in  decay. 

When  we  came  to  leave,  our  countryman,  Visby,  and  Colonel 

31 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


48  2 

Laramendi  were  on  hand  to  bid  us  good-by,  and  my  little 
friends,  Laramendi’s  children,  were  also  there  to  cry,  “  Adois  I 
Vaya  usted  con  dois  !  ” 

Again  we  were  in  Malaga,  and  when  I  was  putting  my 
things  in  order  for  leaving,  I  met  with  a  strange  misfortune, 
I  carried  with  me  my  decorations  of  order  in  miniature,  and 
among  them  one  North  Star,  the  one  that  Oehlenschlager  had 
worn,  and  once  when  I  was  much  cast  down  by  a  too  severe 
criticism,  had  given  me  with  the  most  sympathetic  and  confi¬ 
dent  words,  “  The  north  star  never  goes  out :  you  shall  have 
mine  when  I  am  called  away.”  Now  it  was  stolen  from  me  ;  all 
my  orders  were  taken,  and  I  did  not  recover  them,  though  I 
advertised  both  in  the  Malaga  and  in  the  Granada  journals. 

In  the  evening,  Collin  and  I  went  on  board  our  steamer ;  at 
daybreak  we  saw  the  Gibraltar  rock,  and  soon  we  were  on 
English  ground,  in  a  good  hotel,  where*  the  Danish  Consul, 
Mathiesen,  had  already  engaged  rooms  for  us.  Here,  with 
him,  we  spent  a  few  delightful  days,  visited  the  impregnable 
fortress,  mounted  the  highest  point  of  the  rock,  and  saw  thence 
to  the  west  Teneriffe,  Europe’s  most  southern  point,  and  south 
of  that  Ceuta,  on  the  African  coast. 

On  the  second  of  November,  a  beautiful  sunny  day,  the 
sea  rolled  in  from  the  Atlantic,  and  Collin  and  I  went  over  to 
Tangier,  where  the  English  minister  resident,  Drummond  Hay, 
who  had  married  a  Danish  lady,  had  given  us  a  cordial  invi¬ 
tation  to  his  house.  My  letter  announcing  our  coming  had 
been  given  several  days  before  to  a  fisherman,  but  it  had  not 
yet  reached  them  when  we  got  there,  — strangers  in  a  strange 
town,  in  a  new  part  of  the  world.  We  went,  meanwhile, 
through  the  narrow  streets,  full  of  people,  to  the  minister’s 
hotel.  'The  whole  family  was  in  the  country,  a  few  miles  from 
Tangier,  at  their  country-seat,  Ravensrock. 

The  Secretary  of  the  embassy  was  fortunately  at  the  lega¬ 
tion,  and  he  quickly  provided  horses  for  us,  and  mules  to  carry 
our  luggage,  and  so,  quite  a  caravan,  we  drove  through  the 
town’s,  narrow  main  street,  which  was  full  of  Moorish  Jews, 
Arabs,  beggar  women,  and  naked  children.  Out  beyond  the 
fortified  part  we  came  suddenly  upon  a  whole  encampment  of 
Bedouin  Arabs  and  their  camels. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


483 

Passing  through  a  wild  open  country  we  reached  Ravensrock, 
a  strong  castle  in  the  midst  of  green  fields.  Drummond  Hay, 
his  wife,  and  daughter,  received  us  most  heartily  ;  the  Danish 
tongue  was  heard,  and  all  was  sunshine  and  delight  about  us. 
From  my  room  I  looked  out  over  Tangier  to  blue  mountains. 
I  could  see  over  to  Europe,  caught  sight  of  Gibraltar’s  rock, 
the  town  of  Teneriffe,  and  in  the  evening,  Trafalgar’s  Light. 

There  was  a  loneliness  here,  and  yet  a  strong  life  in  nature  by 
the  rolling  ocean.  We  wished  to  know  something,  also,  of  the 
town  life ;  and  therefore  the  whole  family,  a  week  later,  moved 
back  with  us  to  their  great,  well-ordered  residence  in  Tangier. 

Sir  Drummond  Hay  introduced  us  to  the  Pasha,  who  re¬ 
ceived  us  in  a  friendly  manner  in  the  paved  court  of  the  castle, 
which  reminded  us  of  the  Alhambra.  Tea  was  brought ;  we 
each  had  two  great  cups  of  it,  and  would  have  had  a  third,  but 
I  prevented  it  by  saying  that  it  was  against  our  religion  to 
drink  three  cups,  and  so  we  got  off.  The  Pasha  accompanied 
us  afterward  to  the  castle’s  outer  gate,  where  he  shook  hands 
with  us  with  much  cordiality. 

In  Drummond  Hay’s  house  we  found  English  comfort :  it 
was  cozy  and  well-ordered,  and  most  charming  in  its  amiable 
inmates.  From  the  balcony  of  the  house  one  looked  out  over 
oleander  shrubs  and  palm-trees  quite  to  the  Mediterranean. 
The  time  passed  here  all  too  quickly. 

A  French  war  steamer  was  expected  from  Algiers,  and  we 
were  to  go  by  this  to  Cadiz.  It  was  hard  to  say  farewell  to 
the  dear  friends  in  this  charraing  African  home  ;  the  visit  here 
was  quite  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  whole  journey. 

At  sunset  we  went  on  board.  In  the  middle  of  the  night, 
when  we  lay  sound  asleep,  the  vessel  struck  on  a  sand  bank  in 
the  bay  of  Trafalgar.  I  hurried  upon  deck  ;  the  vessel  lay  a$ 
if  on  one  side.  My  fancy  painted  the  greatest  peril,  but  it 
was  scarcely  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  ship  righted  it¬ 
self,  and  we  slipped  over  the  roiling  sea  in  the  clear  moon¬ 
light.  When  the  sun  rose,  we  cast  anchor  in  the  roads 
before  Cadiz,  the  town  of  towns  f ) r  neatness.  Flags  were 
flying,  and  in  the  harbor  lay  ships  of  all  nations :  it  was  a 
pretty  sight  that  burst  on  us.  For  the  rest  there  is  not  much 

see  here,  —  no  notable  churches,  or  ruins,  or  galleries.  The 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


484 

romantic  one  must  look  for  in  the  view  out  over  the  sea,  and 
in  Andalusian  eyes  that  shine  in  the  mantled  beauties  that 
walk  the  Alameda. 

The  railway  by  Xeres  de  la  Frontera  runs  to  Seville,  one  of 
the  most  romantic  of  Spanish  towns,  adorned  with  beautiful 
churches  and  immortal  pictures.  The  memories  cf  olden 
times  and  great  names  were  linked  with  this  place.  Every 
day  we  visited  the  majestic  cathedral  where  is  the  Moorish 
bell-tower  La  Giralda,  the  highest  in  the  land.  Troen  stands 
winged,  shining  in  the  sunlight.  We  visit  the  castle  of  the 
Moorish  king,  the  gay  Alcazar,  that  gleams  with  gold  and  col¬ 
ors  as  in  its  time  of  splendor.  The  garden  was  tilled  with 
oranges  and  roses  :  the  summer  of  the  south  had  still  a  place 
here.  In  Murillo’s  native  town,  in  the  presence  of  a  wealth 
of  his  beautiful  pictures,  it  came  over  me  how  great  he  was  ; 
yes,  often  I  exclaimed,  “  He  is  the  greatest  of  them  all !  ” 
One  must  travel  to  Spain,  especially  to  Seville  and  Madrid,  to 
see  what  he  has  put  upon  canvas. 

With  the  well  known  genre  painter  John  Phillips,  who  is 
now  dead,  and  the  Swedish  painter  Lundgreen,  we  saw  for  the 
first  time  the  Murillo  Hall,  which  includes  in  the  Academy  of 
Art  at  Seville  the  richest  display  of  his  glories.  We  saw  next 
his  beautiful  painting  of  “  Moses  in  the  Bulrushes,”  which  is 
found  in  the  church  La  Caridad,  next  the  monastery,  which 
now  is  a  hospital  for  old  and  infirm  men,  established  by  Don 
Juan  Tenorio,  who  died  a  monk  here  in  the  monastery  and 
wrote  his  own  epitaph  :  — 

“  Here  lies  the  worst  man  in  the  world.” 

The  story  of  Don  Juan  Tenorio  was  tor  the  first  time  dram¬ 
atized  by  the  Spanish  poet  Tirso  de  Molina  :  his  piece  was 
used  by  Moliere,  and  written  again  as  a  text  for  Mozart,  to  be 
carried  by  immortal  music  through  time  and  generations. 

We  came  after  some  hours  by  rail  to  Cordova,  once  a  prin¬ 
cipal  seat  of  the  Moors,  where,  when  the  manufacture  of  cor¬ 
dovan  1  was  in  full  activity,  an  academy  of  music  flourished. 
The  most  elaborate  of  Moorish  mosques  is  here,  possessing 
relics  of  the  Prophet  himself ;  now  it  is  a  quiet,  deserted  town, 

1  A  peculiarly  dressed  leather  made  in  Cordova. 


THE  STOR  V  OF  MY  LIFE . 


485 

where  the  spirit  of  desolation  seems  to  have  spread  a  wide 
robe  of  forgetfulness  over  so  much  grandeur.  The  grand 
mosque  of  Cordova,  now  a  Christian  church,  is  the  only  splen¬ 
dor  of  Cordova.  A  thousand  and  eight  marble  pillars  support 
the  roof ;  it  is  like  a  plantation  of  pillars  to  look  upon,  and 
in  the  midst  rises  a  richly  gilt  church,  where  the  great  hymn 
resounds  in  honor  of  Jesus  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  between 
walls  that  beat  on  their  arches  in  Arab  characters,  “There  is 
only  one  God  and  Mohammed  is  his  prophet.” 

From  Cordova  to  Madrid  the  larger  part  of  the  railroad 
was  not  yet  finished  and  we  must  again  try  how  uneasy  we 
could  be  in  a  Spanish  diligence.  At  evening  we  came  to 
Andugas,  and  later  in  the  night  to  the  German  colony  Caro¬ 
lina,  around  which  the  country  was  of  a  wild  beauty.  Sierra 
Morena  afforded  us  great  variety  and  delight.  Here,  too,  in 
this  outlawed  land,  where  every  other  tourist  tells  of  robbers, 
attacks,  and  murders,  I  was  in  good  fortune :  I  believe  that  if 
I  had  travelled  with  an  open  pocket-book  in  my  hands,  not  a 
soul  we  met  would  have  given  any  trouble.  Shanty  towns 
thatched  with  cactus  had  sprung  up  along  die  route  of  the 
railway  on  which  the  men  were  working  ;  here  at  least  was  life 
and  bustle. 

After  about  four  or  five  hours’  wild  riding  we  came  to  the 
little  place  Santa  Cruz  de  Mudela,  a  town  with  poor,  mean 
houses,  the  streets  unpaved  and  covered  with  an  offensive 
mire.  The  fonda  near  the  station,  which  had  been  recom¬ 
mended  to  us,  was  a  great  filthy  tavern  with  straw  strewn  on 
the  floor;  the  sleeping  chambers  had  no  panes  of  glass  in  the 
windows,  but  wooden  shutters.  Tired  as  I  was,  I  would  not 
stop  here.  The  train  to  Madrid  was  to  start  immediately,  and 
after  ten  hours’  journey  we  came  at  midnight,  quite  worn  out, 
to  Madrid,  where  in  the  well  known  plaza  Puerta  del  Sol  we 
found  a  good  hotel,  “  Fonda  del  Oriente,”  where  we  got  good 
meals  and  wine  from  the  blushing  hostess,  good  beds  and  good 
rest.  It  was  cold  here,  snow  was  falling,  and  the  town  gave 
me  little  pleasure.  There  was  nothing  characteristically  Span¬ 
ish,  and  no  great  memorials  of  the  Moorish  times.  Still  one 
thing  gives  Madrid  a  preeminence  among  capitals,  —  its  splen¬ 
did  gallery  of  paintings  of  Europe’s  greatest  n asters,  especially 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


486 

.he  works  of  Murillo  and  Velasquez.  Here  I  spent  hours, 
• —  most  happy  hours  ;  and  that  we  might  refresh  our  Spanish 
memories  and  see  the  peculiar  Spanish  nature,  Collin  and  1 
spent  a  few  days  in  a  journey  to  the  picturesque,  interesting 
Toledo.  The  road  led  by  orange  groves,  which  reminded  us 
of  Danish  nature  and  wooded  shades.  Toledo  makes  the  im¬ 
pression  of  a  great  memorable  ruin,  and  is  surrounded  by 
naked  crags,  where  the  Tagus,  in  a  succession  of  falls,  rushes 
down  and  turns  little  water-wheels  that  are  very  picturesque. 
The  Alcazar,  with  its  proud  colonnade  and  ruined  arches, 
makes  a  great  impression  on  one,  as  it  rises  royally  over  the 
waste  about  it,  still  keeping  some  of  its  ancient  glory.  One 
wing  only  of  the  castle  remains  habitable.  The  soldiers  of  the 
Cordova  regiment  are  quartered  there. 

The  cathedral  and  the  church  of  San  Juan  de  los  Reges, 
ah !  that  is  a  Spanish  church  to  see  !  even  after  one  has  seen 
the  cathedrals  of  Malaga,  Seville,  and  Cordova.  With  a 
glory  like  that  of  Solomon,  but  buried  and  hemmed  in,  stand 
1  he  two  Jewish  synagogues,  now  christened  by  the  names  of 
Nuestra  Senora  del  Transito  and  Santa  Maria  la  Blanca.  In 
the  artistic  decoration  of  the  walls  there  is  inwoven  in  a 
broidered  scroll  the  words  in  Hebrew  :  “  Solomon's  temples 
stand  here  still,  but  Israel’s  people  are  departed,  —  the  peo¬ 
ple  that  keep  the  law.  There  is  one  only  true  God.” 

It  is  lonely  and  quiet  here  in  the  town,  and  still  more  in  all 
the  surrounding  country  ;  there  are  only  three  signs  of  life  : 
the  sound  of  the  church-bell  calling  to  mass,  the  beating  of 
the  hammer  in  the  making  of  Damascus  blades,  the  only  re¬ 
maining  memory  of  old  times,  and  now  the  locomotive,  — 

Which  comes  and  blows  its  blast ; 

Then  stillness  reigns  again, 

And  all  about  is  waste  and  bigness. 

In  Madrid,  where  we  went  again  to  stay  some  weeks,  per¬ 
haps  through'  Christmas,  the  author  Don  Sanibaldo  de  Mas, 
formerly  Spanish  Ambassador  to  China,  arranged  in  one  of 
the  Madrid  hotels  a  reception  for  me,  where  I  might  become 
acquainted  with  some  of  the  writers  of  the  day.  I  met  here 
Don  Rahael  Garcia  y  Santesteban,  author  of  “  El  Romo  de 
Artigas,”  and  several  zarquellas.  I  found  in  the  capital  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  487 

Spain  several  eminent  men  who  came  cordially  and  apprecia¬ 
tively  to  me,  while  they  knew  but  little  of  my  writings  ;  the 
only  ones  that  had  been  translated  were  “  The  Match  Girl  ” 
and  Holger  the  Dane.”  I  became  warmly  attached  to  the 
poet  Hartzenbusch,  of  German  extraction  but  of  Spanish  birth, 

—  a  weli  known  dramatist  and  writer  of  wonder  stories  ;  his 
“  Quantos  y  Fabulas  ”  were  upon  every  one’s  tongue:  people 
were  so  polire  as  to  say  we  resembled  one  another  in  our  writ¬ 
ings.  He  came  most  kindly  to  me,  and  wrote  generous  words 
in  the  copy  of  his  “  Quinlar  y  Fabulas,”  which  he  gave  me  as 
a  souvenir.  One  other  name,  noted  in  Spanish  politics  and 
in  recent  literature,  I  may  mention,  the  Duke  of  Rivas  ;  I  was 
taken  to  see  him  and  was  well  received.  We  were  old  ac¬ 
quaintances,  he  reminded  me,  for  we  had  met  before  at  Naples 
when  he  was  ambassador  there. 

I  did  not  remain  in  Madrid  over  Christmas.  The  climate 
was  intolerable.  There  was  rain,  snow,  and  cold  as  severe  as 
in  Denmark  at  the  same  time  of  year.  Occasionally  there 
came  a  change  of  temperature,  but  it  was  a  wind  that  was  dry 
and  piercing,  irritating  the  nerves,  and  not  to  be  endured.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  north  into  France,  and  so  toward 
Denmark ;  but  on  my  departure  in  the  cold  evening  when  the 
snow  fell,  1  became  very  warm  at  heart  on  seeing  in  the  cold 
waiting  hall  so  many  who  had  shown  good-will  toward  me, 
and  who  were  dear  to  me,  I  found,  when  we  came  to  separate, 

—  his  excellency,  the  venerable  Swedish  Minister  Bergmanr, 
several  young  Spanish  poets,  and  one  of  the  most  affectionate 
and  unwearied  during  my  stay  here  in  his  attentions  to  me, 
Jacobo  Zobel  Zangroniz,  from  'Manilla.  I  offer  him  here,' 
should  he  ever  see  this  writing,  my  greeting  and  thanks. 

The  train  went  rushing  away  in  the  storm.  The  wind 
howled  and  a  snow-storm  broke  over  us  at  the  Escurial,  and 
here  already  the  train  stopped.  We  were  crowded  into  a  dili¬ 
gence  and  obliged  to  ride  in  that  till  the  morning.  A  fellow- 
traveller  ran  his  elbow  though  the  window  pane,  the  snow 
blew  in,  a  child  kept  up  a  steady  crying,  the  vehicle  was 
always  on  the  point  of  upsetting,  there  was  no  thinking  of 
sleeping  or  resting,  we  only  thought  of  broken  arms  and  bones. 

At  San  Chidrian  we  again  cane, to  the  railroad,  but  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


488 

first  train  did  not  go  for  several  hours  after  our  arrival,  and 
all  that  time  we  had  to  wait,  sitting  in  a  cold,  ill-appointed 
station.  At  last  the  hour  struck,  and  at  noon  we  were  in 
Burgos,  where  Spain’s  hero,  the  much  sung  Cid,  lived,  and 
where  he  and  his  noble  wife  Ximene  rested  in  the  Benedic¬ 
tine  monastery  San  Pedro  de  Cardona.  We  saw  in  the  ca¬ 
thedral  the  chest  filled  with  stones,  with  which  he  deceived 
the  Jews,  a  very  characteristic  relic  of  that  time,  but  held  in 
little  honor  now. 

Collin  and  I  stayed  here  in  Fonde  del  Rafaello  ;  it  was  a 
hard,  severe  winter.  The  window  panes  were  covered  with 
frost,  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  and  we  were  furnished  with  an 
iron  pot  filled  with  burning  charcoal,  to  keep  us  warm.  We 
put  this  outside  the  door  before  we  went  to  bed,  but  the  door 
hung  so  loosely  by  its  hinges  that  there  were  wide  cracks,  and 
the  fumes  came  in  so  that  I  was  awakened  in  the  night  by 
the  sensation  of  a  nightmare  which  arose  from  the  smoke  ;  it 
was  as  if  I  had  a  hood  tightly  pulled  down  over  my  head.  I 
called  out  to  Jonas  Collin  ;  he  answered  strangely  as  if  dream¬ 
ing.  I  repeated  “  I  am  sick.”  He  did  not  answer  at  all,  and 
I  sprang  out  of  bed,  staggering,  got  the  balcony  door  open, 
and  a  blast  of  wind  sent  a  drift  of  snow  on  me.  It  was  an 
hour  in  that  cold  air  before  Collin  and  I  fairly  came  to  our 
senses  ;  that  night  in  Burgos  came  near  being  our  last  on 
earth. 

From  Burgos  there  was  a  railway  to  Olozagoitis  where  we 
again  took  the  diligence.  The  snow  lay  all  about  us,  the 
light  was  dark,  and  by  daylight  we  crossed  the  Pyrenees  to 
St.  Sebastian,  which  lies  picturesquely  placed  on  the  Basque 
bay.  It  was  winter  here,  but  when  some  hours  later  we  came 
near  the  French  boundary,  the  sun  shone  out,  spring  had  come, 
the  trees  had  buds,  the  violets  were  blooming.  We  came  soon 
to  Bayonne  and  spent  our  Christmas  here  ;  a  small  wax  can¬ 
dle  stuck  in  a  champagne  bottle  was  lighted  for  a  Christmas 
light,  and  healths  were  drunk  for  Denmark  and  all  our  dear 
ones. 

The  famous  watering-place,  Biarritz,  on  the  Bay  of  Biscay, 
lies,  as  is  known,  very  near  Bayonne ;  here  we  spent  several 
days,  and  from  the  heights  we  could  see  the  snow  covered 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


489 

mountains  of  Spain.  The  breaking  of  the  sea  upon  the  rocky 
coast  resounded  like  the  firing  of  cannon.  The  sea  spirted 
like  great  whales  over  the  projecting  rocks,  that  lay  like  bask¬ 
ing  seals.  The  eye  looks  out  over  the  waters  of  the  world’s 
ocean,  whose  nearest  shore  is  America.  New  Year’s  Eve  we 
were  in  Bordeaux,  where  countrymen  of  ours  and  French 
friends  welcomed  us  heartily. 


1863. 

Bordeaux  pleased  me  greatly  ;  I  felt  myself  specially  at¬ 
tracted  by  the  theatre,  where  the  opera  was  in  full  flower. 
There  for  the  first  time  I  heard  Gounod’s  “  Faust,”  and  I  re¬ 
peated  my  visits.  There  were  voices  !  and  dramati ;  song  and 
fine  decorations  !  I  have  forgotten  the  names  of  die  singers, 
but  not  the  strong  impression  they  made  on  me,  nor  my  vex¬ 
ation  over  the  otherwise  charming  actress  of  Margaret's  part, 
to  see  how  thoughtless  an  actress  sometimes  can  be.  In  the 
third  act,  where  Margaret  in  a  maidenly  and  pious  way,  with 
her  psalm  book  in  her  hand,  comes  home  from  church,  she 
takes  out  her  spinning  and  sits  and  sings  the  ballad  of  the 
“  King  of  Thule  ”  :  Margaret  seated  herself,  but  as  she  had  no 
longer  any  use  for  her  psalm-book,  she  tossed  it  like  an  old 
rag  behind  the  side  scenes,  as  Margaret  in  reality,  or,  so  to 
speak,  in  the  kingdom  of  beauty,  certainly  would  not  have  han¬ 
dled  the  church  book.  Every  time  I  heard  “  Faust  ”  this  hap¬ 
pened,  and  it  was  only  after  hearing  more  music  and  real 
acting  that  I  could  again  enter  into  this  character. 

The  cathedral  was  visited,  the  remains  of  the  Roman  am¬ 
phitheatre,  the  old  foundations  of  the  town.  The  weather  be 
gan  to  be  warm  and  fine,  violets  in  great  multitude  were  out 
in  the  meadows,  the  fruit-trees  were  in  blossom.  Our  Danish 
Consul  took  us  to  a  pretty  villa  out  in  the  country  close  by  the 
river  side.  Here  we  saw  fresh  young  spring  as  if  it  were  ready 
to  follow  us  on  our  journey  northward. 

In  Angouleme  we  stopped  ror  a  day,  but  stayed  longer  at 
Poictiers,  where  Collin  had  a  friend  :  he  took  us  about  the  town, 
which  stands  high  and  has  a  noble  cathedral  which  dates  back 
to  the  time  of  the  Moots  :  here  are  also  some  very  old  build' 
mg'  and  not  less  than  two-and-thirty  monasteries. 


490 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


The  weather  meanwhile  was  not  more  spring-like  than  in 
Bordeaux.  We  were  forced  again  to  hear  the  wood  crackle  in 
the  fire-place.  Some  little  turtles  which  Collin  brought  from 
Tangier  were  as  cold  as  we  were,  and  we  shoved  them  up  to 
the  fire  till  they  were  nearly  burnt. 

From  old  Poictiers  we  came  to  the  pretty  town  of  Tours,  with 
its  immense  suspension  bridge  and  great  cathedral,  its  broad 
streets  and  gay  shops  ;  here  was  spring  again,  and  sunshine? 
flowers,  and  green  things.  We  went  to  see  the  old  house 
where  Louis  XI. ’s  infamous  executioner,  Tristan  the  Hermit, 
had  lived.  The  garden  was  adorned  with  decorations  and  in¬ 
scriptions  ;  from  the  tower  one  looks  over  town  and  river  far 
into  the  country.  A  part  of  the  churches  lie  in  ruins,  single 
ones  being  put  to  profane  use,  —  as  one  fora  stable,  another 
for  a  theatre. 

From  Tours  our  journey  led  to  Blois :  every  town,  like  every 
man,  has  its  own  countenance  ;  they  have  a  common  likeness 
and  yet  are  different ;  one  keeps  in  his  mind  all  their  peculiar 
touches ;  so  it  is  with  me  as  regards  the  towns  of  Southern 
France  ;  they  are  like  little  vignettes  of  my  journey  ;  and  not  the 
least  vivid  is  my  recollection  thus  of  Blois,  with  its  crooked  nar¬ 
row  streets  and  the  shaded  promenade  by  the  bank  of  the  river. 
I  remember  well  wandering  up  to  the  cathedral,  where  the  street 
rises  so  steeply  that  they  have  had  a  parapet  made  for  one  to 
hold  on  by  as  one  climbs  up.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  old 
castle  turned  now  into  barracks,  but  well  preserved  too.  The 
whole  building,  and  the  memories  that  cluster  about  it,  make 
an  impression  upon  one  that  calls  up  dark  mysteries.  The 
red-painted  open  balcony  arches  before  every  window  seem 
like  mouths  one  has  run  a  tongue  out  of"  so  as  not  to  tell  what 
has  been  done  there  inside.  Here  was  the  Duke  of  Guise 
murdered  ;  we  saw  the  apartment,  and  the  hole  in  the  tapes¬ 
try  through  which  Henry  was  an  eye-witness. 

Two  days  were  spent  in  Orleans,  a  time  all' too  short  for  see¬ 
ing  its  beautiful  buildings  and  monuments.  There  is  a  monu¬ 
ment  to  Jeanne  d’Arc  in  the  square  Napoleon  III.,  full  of 
beauty  and  poetic  thought.  She  is  represented  on  horseback, 
and  round  about  on  a  pedestal  are  large  bronze  bas-reliefs, 
which  contain  representations  quite  close  to  the  conception  in 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


491 


Schiller’s  tragedy  ;  from  where,  watching  her  sheep,  she  saw 
the  Virgin  reveal  herself,  to  that  last  moment  where  she  stands 
in  flames  at  the  stake.  A  lesser  statue,  modeled  by  King 
Louis  Philippe’s  daughter  Maria,  and  presented  to  the  town, 
has  a  place  in  the  town  hall  garden  ;  we  saw  also  on  the  bank 
of  the  river  an  older  statue  erected  to  Jeanne  d’Arc.  We 
saw  the  house  she  lived  in,  and  Diana  of  Poictiers’s  residence, 
and  the  splendid  mansion  which  Charles  VII.  had  built  for  his 
beloved  Agnes  Sorel. 

From  Orleans  one  soon  comes  to  Paris,  where  we  were  now 
to  stay  two  months,  the  first  in  the  year,  the  most  full  of  en¬ 
joyment  to  strangers,  where  many  have  more  pleasure  than 
they  could  wish  for.  It  was  not  the  first  time  in  my  life  that 
it  had  been  granted  me  to  be  here,  and  I  would  enjoy  this 
sunshine  of  life,  and  I.  enjoyed  it  as  I  had  before  enjoyed  the 
whole  romantic  journey  through  Spain  to  Africa’s  coast  and 
back  ;  great  pleasurable  pictures  of  memory  were  granted  me, 
but  the  days  and  months  are  not  all  made  of  silk,  and  every 
day’s  life  has  its  rough  prickling  yarn.  There  is  an  old  saying, 
“  Men  are  not  so  good  as  they  ought  to  be  !  ”  and  I  belong  to 
the  ranks  of  men.  “  Forgive  us  as  we  forgive  our  debtors  ” 
—  that’s  in  the  Lord’s  Prayer. 

Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  was  in  Paris,  on  his  wav  home  from 
Italy.  At  his  suggestion,  the  Scandinavians  made  a  pleasant 
feast  for  me  at  a  restaurant  in  the  Palais  Royal.  The  table  was 
adorned  with  flowers,  and  at  the  lower  end  of  the  hall  was  ar¬ 
ranged  a  large  picture  representing  H.  C.  Andersen  surrounded 
by  his  “  Wonder  Stories.”  “  The  Angel  ”  floated  above  ;  “  The 
Wild  Swans  ”  flew  past  ;  here  was  “  Thumbling,”  here  “  The 
Butterfly,”  “The  Neighboring  Families,”  “The  Little  Sea¬ 
maid,”  “  The  Constant  Tin  Soldier,”  —  not  one  was  wanting  of 
the  mice  that  told  of  “  Soup  made  of  a  Sausage-stick.” 

Bjornson  made  a  hearty  speech,  and  in  his  kind  feeling 
toward  me  placed  me  beside  Baggesen,  Vessel,  and  Heiberg  in 
popular  wit  and  satire.  I  replied  that  it  was  to  me  as  if  1 
were  dead  and  lay  in  my  coffin,  and  people  were  saying  over 
me  the  prettiest  and  best  things  they  could  think  of,  and  every¬ 
thing  was  put  in  the  strongest  light  ;  but  I  was  not  dead.  I 
hoped  the^e  was  still  some  future  “emaining  to  me,  and  I  heart' 


492 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


ily  wished  it  might  be  given  to  me  to  make  good  all  that  they 
had  been  saying. 

a  Swedish  song  was  now  sung,  and  then  was  read  a  letter 
to  H.  C.  Andersen  from  the  poet  P.  L.  Moller,  who  had  lived 
for  several  years  in  Paris,  but  was  prevented  by  sickness  from 
taking  part  in  the  festival.  I  read  for  my  friends  a  few  of 
my  Wonder  Stories  :  “  The  Wind  tells  of  Waldemar  Daae,” 
“It  is  certainly  true,”  and  “  Children’s  Prattle.”  There  was 
most  hearty  and  happy  accord,  and  I  look  back  upon  it  as  one 
of  the  bright  evenings  of  my  life. 

Late  in  March  I  left  Paris,  and  our  journey  home  lay  by 
Diisseldorf,  where  some  pleasant  days  were  spent  with  the 
Norwegian  painter  Tidemand,  in  whose  studio  there  then 
stood  partly  finished  his  remarkable  picture,  “  A  Fght  at  a 
Feast  in  Norway.”  The  knife  ends  the  quarrel.  One  man 
lies  stretched  dead  ;  another,  mortally  wounded,  is  cursed  by 
the  grandmother  of  the  dead  man.  It  is  a  powerful  picture, 
with  masterly  handling  of  the  light;  it  streams  from  the  fire, 
and  from  the  dawn  which  comes  through  the  open  roof. 

On  my  birthday,  the  second  of  April,  I  was  again  in  Copen¬ 
hagen,  but  soon  the  forest  put  forth  its  leaves,  and  I  started 
out  again  to  visit  my  friends  at  Christinelund,  Basnos,  and 
Glorup.  At  these  places  I  wrote  out  from  notes,  which  I 
brought  home  from  my  journey,  the  book  “  In  Spain.”  Nearly 
all  of  June  I  was  at  the  delightful  manor-house,  Glorup,  with 
Count  Moltke  Hvitfeldt,  where  I  always  had  found  a  home. 
The  garden  had  been,  as  it  were,  transformed  in  beauty  since  I 
was  last  here ;  the  old  French  part  had  been  beautified  with  a 
fountain,  which  cast  its  bright  jets  up  among  the  great  trees  ; 
the  newer  part  had  been  turned  into  an  English  park,  with 
lawns  and  fine  groups  of  trees. 

At  the  close  of  August  I  was  again  back  in  my  little  room 
in  Copenhagen.  They  gave  at  the  Casino  my  comedy,  “  Elder 
Mother.”  The  talented  young  Carl  Price  played  very  nat¬ 
urally  and  pleasantly  the  simple  minded  young  lover’s  part, 
sang  delightfully  the  little  songs.  He  and  the  piece  were  re¬ 
ceived  with  great  applause,  and  from  that  time  it  became 
one  of  the  little  pieces  which  are  regularly  seen  with  grea* 
acceptance,  much  more  than  at  the  first  representation.  I 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


493 


have  before  spoken  of  the  time  when  it  was  only  poets  like 
Heiberg,  Boye,  and  Thiele  who  then  felt  the  worth  of  the 
piece,  not  the  critics.  What  a  change  now  !  I  wrote  this  au¬ 
tumn  for  the  Royal  Theatre  the  play,  “  He  is  not  well  born,'* 
and  for  the  Casino  Theatre,  “  On  Long  Bridge.” 

I  had,  in  turning  over  the  pages  of  Kotzebue’s  dramatic 
works,  found  a  drama  I  did  not  know:  it  was  written  after  the 
well  known  pretty  tale,  “  Still  Love,”  of  Musceus.  I  took  this 
piece  and- let  it  tell  its  story  as  Musaeus  gives  it,  but  gave  it 
in  my  mind  a  very  Danish  action.  Bremen  Bridge  is  Copen¬ 
hagen’s  Long  Bridge.  The  whole  story  was  very  home  like  ; 
songs  were  introduced,  and  I  had  a  good  deal  of  pleasure  from 
it.  All  was  happiness  and  sunshine ;  but  now  was  coming  a 
tempest ;  dark  days  were  at  hand,  and  a  heavy,  bitter  time. 
The  storm  burst,  not  over  me  alone  but  over  land  and  king¬ 
dom,  for  now  came  Denmark’s  time  of  trial. 

King  Frederick  VII.  made  his  residence  in  Sleswick,  at  the 
castle  of  Gliicksborg  :  there  came  alarming  rumors  of  the  state 
of  his  health.  It  was  Monday,  the  fifteenth  of  November.  I 
was  with  the  Minister  of  Public  Worship,  Bishop  Monrad,  who 
was  plainly  uneasy.  The  weather  was  raw  and  gloomy.  The 
damp  air  oppressed  me  ;  I  seemed  to  myself  to  be  in  a  house 
of  mourning.  I  thought  of  the  King  and  felt  troubled,  and 
when  a  few  hours  afterward  I  went  to  see  some  friends  in  the 
house  where  the  Minister  Fenger  lived,  I  met  the  telegraph 
director,  who  himself  brought  the  dispatch.  I  waited  anx¬ 
iously  on  the  steps  until  he  came  back,  and  asked  if  I  might 
see  what  was  written.  He  answered  only,  “  We  must  be  pre¬ 
pared  for  the  worst.”  I  went  in  to  the  Minister.  He  said  to 
me,  “  The  King  is  dead.”  I  burst  into  tears.  When  I  went  out 
into  the  street  the  people  stood  in  groups  and  showed  the 
sorrowful  news  in  their  faces.  I  was  overcome,  and  longed  to 
see  some  friend,  so  I  went  to  Edward  Collin.  Here  people 
came  in  who  had  been  at  the  theatre,  but  when  the  play  was 
to  begin,  a  voice  was  heard  in  the  parterre  saying  that  “  When 
the  King  lies  at  the  point  of  death,  it  was  not  proper  to  play 
omedies,”  and  the  public  was  bidden  to  go.  The  curtain 
t  oon  rose,  and  the  act  Dr  Phister  stepped  iorward  and  said  that 
•t  was  very  natural  that  people  under  these  circumstances 


494 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


should  have  no  pleasure  in  seeing  comedies,  and  the  actors 
certainly  had  no  more  pleasure  in  giving  one.  The  play  was 
therefore  given  up. 

In  the  Casino  Theatre  a  couple  of  acts  were  played  when  the 
sorrowful  news  came  of  the  King’s  death.  A  sob  went  through 
the  house,  and  the  people  immediately  went  quietly  out ;  the 
play  was  broken  off. 

The  next  forenoon  the  air  was  thick  and  heavy,  as  if  in 
keeping,  and  I  went  out  to  Christiansborg  Castle.  The  square 
was  filled  with  men.  The  President  of  the  Council,  Hald, 
stepped  out  on  a  balcony  of  the  castle  and  proclaimed  “  King 
Frederick  VII.  is  dead.  Long  live  King  Christian  IX.”  Hur¬ 
ras  resounded  all  about.  The  King  rose,  and  while  the  clamor 
continued  he  came  forward  again  and  again.  From  the  happy 
family  life,  with  its  quiet  and  gladness,  he  was  elevated  now 
to  the  trial  of  dark  days  which  God  had  willed  should  pass 
over  us  all.  I  felt  sick  in  body  and  soul  and  quite  cast  down. 
In  the  evening  I  wrote  :  — 

Sad  tidings  through  the  Danish  country  sped  : 

“  King  Frederick  the  Seventh,  our  Danish  king,  is  dead  !  ” 

Sound  the  dirge  over  Thyra’s  mighty  mound. 

On  Danish  shield  his  broken  heart  was  found. 

God  sent  that  heart  to  Danish  land  and  folk, 

Nor  any  truer  man  the  Danish  language  spoke. 

From  heather  plain  to  stormy  coast, 

No  man  for  Denmark  greater  love  can  boast ; 

Thou  that  hast  kings’  meaning  spoke, 

Art  blessed  with  love  of  common  folk. 

Thanks  for  thy  love,  for  all  thy  nature  gave, 

And,  giving  thanks,  we  weep  beside  thy  grave. 

In  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  the  second  of  December,  the 
King’s  corpse  came  to  Copenhagen.  From  my  dwelling  in 
Newhaven  I  saw  the  sarcophagus  vessel  glide  quietly  over  the 
water  to  funereal  music  and  the  ringing  of  church-bells.  The 
words  “  Castrum  Doloris  ”  were  inscribed  on  the  Christiansborg 
Castle  ;  people  were  streaming  from  there,  and  I  was  troubled 
for  the  crowds  that  had  pushed  on  foot  by  foot,  and  were  now 
so  hemmed  in  that  they  could  not  escape  until  the  whole 
procession  was  over.  Alone  with  my  thoughts,  this  tingled  my 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


495 


nerves  ;  I  could  not  go  that  way,  and  gave  up  going ;  but  when 
the  time  for  admission  was  gone  by,  I  was  sorry  that  I  had 
net  been  there.  I  felt  that  I  must  once  more  get  near  the 
good  friendly  King  and  stand  by  his  coffin.  It  was  granted 
me,  and  I  got  there  with  great  ease.  The  lamps  were  still 
burning  in  the  chamber  of  mourning.  The  workmen  were 
taking  away  the  last  pieces  of  the  catafalque  and  inscriptions  : 
the  white  satin  canopy  still  decorated  the  Hall  of  State,  the* 
lights  were  burning  in  the  candelabra ;  the  escutcheons  were 
in  their  place  ;  only  the  tabourets  with  orders  and  insignia  were 
gone.  I  came  just  as  the  lid  was  lifted  from  the  open  coffin 
to  make  ready  for  the  lowering  of  it.  I  saw  the  inner  black 
wooden  box  lined  with  lead  which  inclosed  the  corpse;  I 
bowed  myself  over  the  coffin,  the  odor  from  which  was  so  strong 
as  to  send  me  to  the  open  window.  In  the  room  close  by 
were  laid  wreaths  from  Sleswick ;  I  held  in  my  hand  the  flower¬ 
less  moss  wreath  which  some  poor  people  had  brought.  I 
saw  garlands  of  Christ’s  -  thorn  from  Flensborg  —  all  these 
wreaths  were  to  go  into  the  king’s  grave. 

The  Singing  Union  of  Copenhagen  were  to  give  in  chorus 
a  farewell  song  to  the  departed  king,  when  his  dust  was  borne 
to  Roeskilde,  and  I  was  charged  with  the  writing  of  the  words. 
The  day  of  burial  came  ;  the  time  was  toward  evening.  The 
procession  halted  at  the  west  gate  while  the  song  was  sung ; 
the  'nsignia  of  the  corporations  waved,  the  cannon  flashed 
and  boomed,  the  smoke  swelled  into  little  clouds  that  floated 
up  toward  the  sun.  Sorrow  and  grief  held  our  hearts  and 
thoughts. 

The  bloody  waves  of  war  were  again  to  wash  over  our  father- 
land.  A  kingdom  and  an  empire  stood  united  against  our 
little  country.  A  poet’s  way  is  not  by  politics;  he  has  his 
mission  in  the  service  of  Beauty  ;  but  when  the  ground  trembles 
beneath  him  so  that  all  threatens  to  fall  at  once,  then  has  he 
only  thought  for  this  which  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death  :  he 
does  not  stand  on  one  side  of  occurrences,  but  knows  full  well 
their  significance  and  has  his  serious  thoughts  concerning 
them.  He  is  planted  in  his  father-land  as  a  tree  ;  there  he 
brings  forth  his  flowers  and  his  fruit ;  and  if  they  are  sent 
widely  through  the  world,  the  roots  of  the  tree  are  in  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


496 

home  soil  and  perceive  what  shapes  that,  what  issues  from  it 
to  death. 

The  Duke  of  Augustenborg’s  eldest  son  appeared  as  laying 
claim  to  the  dukedom  of  Holstein  and  the  Danish  dukedom 
of  Sleswick.  Germany  was  ready  to  maintain  his  right.  The 
whole  reading  world  saw  that  it  would  be  for  Denmark  a 
heavy,  bitter  conflict.  The  Danish  soldier  is  uniformly  brave, 
fair,  and  honest.  “The  brave  Johnnies,”  the  soldiers  are 
called  in  the  popular  tongue.  A  girl’s  “John,”  they  say,  is 
one  who  is  marked  as  especially  liked  by  women.  With  song 
and  shout  they  moved  away  to  protect  Denmark  at  the  Dan • 
nevirke ,  the  old  ramparts  which  Gorm  the  Old,  Thyra  Danne- 
bod,  had  raised  a  thousand  years  ago  to  shield  our  land  against 
the  German  invasion.  This  time  had  passed,  and  now  was  to 
come  the  overwhelming  might.  In  the  early  morning  I  was 
awakened  several  times  by  the  song  and  tramp  of  the  soldiers 
as  they  came  from  the  barracks  past  my  dwelling.  I  sprang 
out  of  bed,  opened  my  window,  and  with  moist  eyes  prayed  God 
to  bless  and  keep  the  young,  joyous  defenders.  On  one  such 
occasion,  deeply  moved,  I  wrote,  — 

A  SONG  OF  TRUST. 

No  mortal  knows  what  to-morrow  shall  bring; 

None  knows  or  sees  save  God  our  King ; 

But  when  comes  Denmark’s  darkest  day, 

Then  comes  from  God  deliverance  alway. 

When  rent  and  racked  the  country  lay, 

Niels  Ebbesen’s  courage  was  her  stay  ; 

God  led  us  in  his  own  great  way, 

And  Denmark  saw  a  brighter  day. 

O’er  the  white  capped  waves  the  black  winds  sweep* 

Our  vessel  rocks  on  the  stormy  deep  ; 

But  God  our  Lord  in  the  tumult  stands, 

And,  wiser  than  man,  gives  his  commands. 

No  mortal  knows  what  to-morrow  shall  bYing; 

None  knows  or  sees  save  God  our  King ; 

But  when  comes  Denmark’s  darkest  day, 

Then  comes  from  God  deliverance  alway. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE ,  497 

Th  is  was  printed  in  the  “  Dagblad.”  The  evening  after,  I 
received  a  letter  signed  “  Only  a  Woman,”  which  read  :  — 

“  If  Herr  Professor  should  again  feel  himself  disposed  to 
give  the  people  faith  respecting  the  impending  campaign,  it 
might  be  well  to  choose  another  form  for  inspiring  our  depart¬ 
ing  brothers  with,  than  to  quiet  them  ;  our  present  condition, 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  see,  is  like  a  stormy  night,  in  which  our 
little  vessel  puts  out  into  the  deep.  The  Danish  warrior  who 
goes  away,  glad  and  proud,  to  fight  for  our  righteous  cause,  can- 
net  understand  that  there  is  any  occasion  for  gloomy  thoughts 
over  the  present  times.” 

I  still  believed  in  a  deliverance  from  God,  but  sometimes 
was  filled  with  anxiety,  yet  never  have  I  more  fervently  felt 
how  fast  I  clung  to  my  native  land.  I  did  not  forget  how 
much  affection,  good  fellowship,  and  courtesy  I  had  met  with 
in  Germany,  how  many  dear  friends,  men  and  women,  I  there 
had,  but  now  a  drawn  sword  was  between  us.  I  do  not  forget 
those  who  have  served  me,  or  my  friends  ;  but  my  country  is 
as  a  mother  to  me,  and  she  is  first.  Yet  how  heavily  it  all  lay 
on  my  heart ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  not  bear  it.  Never 
has  Christmas  appeared  so  dark  and  gloomy  as  this  year.  As 
the  year  departed,  on  New  Year’s  Eve,  I  stood  filled  with  griet 
at  what  the  next  year  might  bring.  God  was  almighty  —  I 
trusted  in  Him.  He  would  not  fail  Denmark. 

1864. 

New  Year’s  morning  was  a  tingling,  frosty  day.  I  thought 
of  our  soldiers  at  their  posts,  and  in  the  cold  barracks.  I 
thought,  —  Now  the  frost  bridge  is  thrown  over  the  water  for 
the  enemy,  a  whole  army  of  people  can  cross  it.  What  will 
happen  ?  I  had  not  the  strong  confidence  which  so  many 
about  me  had,  that  the  Dannevirke  could  not  be  taken.  I 
knew  indeed  how  far  more  extensively  they  could  array  their 
soldiers  than  we,  even  if  every  soul  went.  I  knew  that  from 
great  Germany  the  railways  could  hurl  against  us  soldiers, 
as  the  sea  in  a  storm  casts  its  waves  against  the  strand.  I 
asked  one  of  my  countrymen  who  was  high  in  office,  “  Should 
the  Dannevirke  be  taken,  how  could  our  soldiers  then  ap¬ 
proach  Dyppel  and  Als  without  being  fired  upon?” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


498 

“  How  can  a  Dane,”  he  burst  out,  “  ask  such  a  thing  !  how 
can  he  think  of  the  Dannevirke  being  taken !  ”  So  strong 
was  the  confidence  in  God  Almighty  and  what  we  sang  and 
felt  —  our  brave  soldiers. 

Every  day  soldiers  left  for  the  seat  of  war,  young  men,  —  sing¬ 
ing  in  their  youthful  gayety,  going  as  to  a  lively  feast.  For 
weeks  and  months  I  felt;  myself  unfitted  to  do  anything;  all 
my  thoughts  were  with  the  men.  On  the  first  of  February 
the  telegram  came  that  the  Germans  had  crossed  the  Eider. 
Operations  had  commenced.  By  the  end  of  the  week  we 
heard  the  evil  tidings  that  Dannevirke  was  abandoned.  Gen¬ 
eral  Meza  with  our  troops  had,  without  the  blow  of  a  sword, 
retired  from  the  frontier  and  were  moving  northward.  I 
thought  I  was  dreaming  a  horrid  dream !  How  crushed  I 
was,  and  many,  many  were  like  me.  Wailing  crowds  went 
rushing  through  the  streets.  What  an  evening  it  was  !  what 
a  time !  It  was  a  day  of  fiery  trial  for  us  all  ;  but  in  this  was 
our  steadfast  trust,  —  Father-land,  the  soldiers  —  our  defense. 

There  was  exhibited  great  ingenuity  in  raising  funds  for  the 
sick  and  wounded,  and  for  the  families  and  orphans  of  those 
who  died.  Every  one  gave  more  than  his  share,  —  he  gave  all 
he  could  scrape  together.  The  theatres  stood  every  evening 
as  good  as  closed,  for  no  one  was  in  the  mood  to  go  there. 
My  previously  named  piece  at  the  Casino,  “  On  Long  Bridge,” 
it  was  believed,  would  as  a  novelty  draw  some  spectators,  and 
it  proved  to  be  so ;  it  took  well,  and  people  came  for  a  few 
evenings. 

The  sixteenth  of  February  the  enemy  crossed  King  River, 
but  we  still  held  Als  and  Dyppel.  God  would  not  forsake  us 
was  my  steadfast  thought.  The  Queen’s  mother  died  just  at 
his  time,  and  I  was  appointed  by  the  King  to  write  a  psalm 
which  should  be  sung  over  her  grave  in  Roeskilde  cathedral. 
Some  days  after  I  was  summoned  to  the  Queen,  who  thanked 
me  most  kindly  for  my  words.  We  stood  by  the  window, 
music  struck  up,  soldiers  went  by  to  join  the  army,  to  give 
their  young  life  blood.  Large  tears  started  from  the  Queen's 
eyes,  —  farewell  tears  for  the  Danish  children.  Foreign  war 
had  about  it  something  to  relieve  it,  —  its  moments  of  lightness 
but  now  we  stood  here  singly  against  a  multitude,  and  had 
only  oUr  trust,  —  God  can  abase,  but  He  raises  again. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


499 


Collin’s  daughter’s  son,  Wiggo  Drewsen,  whom  I  had 
danced  upon  my  arm  when  he  was  a  child,  and  to  whom  I  had 
sung  one  of  my  best  known  songs,  “  Little  Wiggo,”  was  badly 
wounded  at  Dyppel,  and  lay  there  among  the  dead  and 
wounded  until  the  battle  was  ended,  and  the  Prussians  bore 
him  to  their  hospital.  Who  in  this  country  had  not  seme  rela 
don,  some  dear  friend,  for  whom  they  went,  as  I  for  him,  in 
mournful  unquietness. 

The  second  of  April,  Sonderborg  was  fired  by  the  enemy. 
All  Jutland  was  soon  occupied  by  armed  men,  who  crowded 
over  Liimfjord  and  drew  near  Skagen.  I  had  in  faith  and 
hope  sung,  while  the  soldiers  were  fighting  from  the  half  de¬ 
stroyed  fortifications,  — 

A  little  band  with  trust  in  God 
And  Right,  holds  out  to  th’  end. 

But  what  avails  a  little  band  against  well  appointed  great 
armies  ?  I  had  a  misgiving  that  my  father-land  would  be  sev¬ 
ered  piece  by  piece,  and  bleed  to  death,  that  my  mother 
tongue  would  be  washed  away,  only  sounding  as  an  echo  from 
the  Northern  coasts.  Our  old  songs  themselves  would  not 
come  to  the  lips ;  they  sounded  like  the  shoveling  of  earth 
upon  the  coffin  : 

And  shall  we  never  sing  again, 

“  To  Denmark  meadows  green  belong  ?” 

The  heart  is  dead  in  singing  men, 

For  cruel  Winter  chased  it  when 
There  came  not  to  us  that  one  friend 
For  whom  we  watched  so  long. 

The  Summer  blows  its  gentle  wind, 

The  whitethorn  blooms,  and  the  cuckoo  sings ; 

All  as  of  old  is  fair  and  kind  ; 

The  birdies  chirp  with  their  wonted  mind, 

And  flowers  with  old  bright  hues  we  find, 

Only  man’s  heart  to  sighing  clings. 

There  is  no  gain  in  grief’s  dark  mood  ; 

To  weep,  to  mourn,  no  fortune  makes 
What  shall  be  has  eternally  stood, 

Writ  by  His  hand  who  is  wise  and  good,  — 

Who  His  people  has  led  by  field  and  by  flood,  — > 

Great  King  of  kings  who  counsel  takes. 


5oo 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


Not  yet  has  our  old  ship  bade  adieu. 

Up  !  on  the  deck,  then,  every  man  ! 

A  piece  of  the  gunwale  has  gone,  it  is  true, 

For  the  sea  did  brew,  and  its  white  foam  flew 
Up  to  the  Dannebrog  fast  held  by  the  clew,  — 

God  held  that  fast  in  his  mighty  hand. 

Never  shall  trust  vanish  in  air 
Till  hearts  have  burst  with  sorrow  ; 

And  ever  the  people  saith  in  prayer, 

Denmark  in  God’s  own  love  hath  share,  — 

He  is  our  God,  we  are  his  care, 

And  the  sun  shall  shine  to-morrow. 

But  no  sunshine  fell  upon  us.  Ships  brought  the  wounded 
and  mangled  to  Copenhagen.  They  were  lifted  out  and 
borne  through  the  streets  to  the  hospitals.  Some,  like  Cap¬ 
tain  Schack  died  on  the  way  thither.  Several  of  the  bodies 
of  officers  slain  were  brought  to  Copenhagen.  I  saw  some 
friends  among  the  dead  ;  most  lay  in  their  uniforms  :  there 
was  a  rest,  a  calm  spread  over  their  countenances,  as  if  they 
had,  wearied  qf  the  conflict,  lain  down  here  for  quiet,  to 
awaken  strengthened  and  refreshed 

How  heavily  and  drearily  the  time  passed.  The  sun  shone 
warmly,  the  trees  and  bushes  stood  fresh  in  the  spring-time. 
I  felt  as  if  it  were  an  added  grief  that  all  should  seem  so 
charming,  —  as  if  all  things  on  earth  were  at  peace.  I  could  not 
think  of  there  being  joy  or  any  happy  future.  During  this 
grievous  time,  my  play,  “  He  is  not  well-born,”  which  I  had 
written  and  brought  out  just  before  the  beginning  of  the  war, 
was  to  be  performed  at  the  Royal  Theatre.  Now  I  had  no 
thought  for  it,  nor  any  care  to  see  it  tried.  The  day  when  the 
piece  was  to  be  given  in  the  evening  was  indeed  a  great  fu¬ 
neral  day.  Thirteen  bodies  of  our  fallen  brave  men  were  to 
be  buried:  there  were  ten  officers  and  three  privates.  From 
the  garrison  church,  dressed  with  flags  and  flowers,  the  coffins 
were  borne,  garlanded  with  flowers.  A  great  procession  ac¬ 
companied  them,  headed  by  the  King  and  Landgrave.  I 
joined  the  ranks,  but  was  so  overcome  that  I  was  soon  forced 
to  leave  it  and  go  into  a  friend’s  house.  Thus  cast  down,  I 
was  forced  in  the  evening  to  go  to  the  representation  of  my 
piece,  It  was  a  felicitous  affair,  but  I  could  not,  as  before,  ask 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


501 

our  Lord  for  a  good  result ;  there  was  far  weightier  things  to 
ask  of  Him.  The  piece,  meanwhile,  was  received  with  great 
applause.  The  public’s  favorite,  our  distinguished  actor, 
Michael  Wiehe,  played  the  principal  part  with  a  truthfulness 
and  ardor  that  carried  all  with  him.  It  was  his  last  role ; 
some  months  after  God  called  him  away,  and  no  one  since  has 
ventured  to  assume  this  part,  for  he  elevated  it  and  gave  it  its 
real  character.  The  critics  were  well-disposed  toward  my  work, 
but  I  felt  no  real  pleasure ;  that  had  no  home  with  me  for  the 
moment,  and  I  lost  all  hope  of  a  happy  future. 

My  neighbors,  friends,  and  acquaintances  were  as  dispirited 
as  I  :  every  one  was  penetrated  by  the  feeling :  one  common 
ground  we  all  had  —  love  for  our  father-land.  Daily,  our  youth 
still  marched  away.  Als  was  attacked  :  soon  came  one  evil 
telegram  after  another.  France  and  England  stood  neutral. 
Als  was  taken,  gone  !  gone  !  I  could  not  weep  ;  the  worst  had 
come,  the  people  fled  from  Middelfart.  In  Funen  they  awaited 
the  enemy.  I  lost,  for  the  moment,  my  hold  of  God,  and  felt 
myself  as  wretched  as  a  man  can  be.  Days  followed  in  which 
I  cared  for  nobody,  and  I  believed  nobody  cared  for  me.  I 
had  no  relief  in  speaking  to  any  one.  One,  however,  more 
faithful  and  kind,  came  to  me,  Edward  Collin’s  excellent  wife, 
who  spake  compassionate  words  and  bade  me  give  thought  to 
Tny  work.  Another  older  and  steadfast  friend,  Madame  Neer- 
gaard,  took  me  to  her  pleasant  home  in  the  wooded  Sollerod, 
by  the  shining,  quiet  lake.  Kind  eyes  shone  on  me,  popular 
melodies  sounded  about  us.  She  had  a  mother’s  love  for  me 
as  a  poet  and  a  man.  The  year  after,  when  God  called  her,  I 
irew  her  picture  in  a  few  lines  :  — 

A  Christian  wert  thou  like  apostles  of  old, 

Filled  full  with  faith  that  flowered  in  actions  right ; 

A  very  Dane  at  heart,  thy  soul  took  flight 

To  Heaven’s  throne,  where  in  thy  meekness  bold 
Thou  bendest  knee  and  prayest  for  Denmark  there, — 

“  O  let  her  grow  in  right  and  wisdom  fair.” 

$ 

Surely  her  first  prayer  in  heaven  would  be,  “  Be  gracious 
and  good  to  Denmark.”  * 

There  was  a  merry  gathering  when  I  came  there.  The  little 
l  «rden  was  filuminated  by  torches  and  variegated  lights,  a 


502 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


most  cheering  greeting  to  the  heartsick.  It  was  indeed  a 
pleasure  to  see  the  affectionate  and  lively  company  that  gath¬ 
ered  about  her.  It  was  here  that  I  learned  especially  to  know 
the  gifted  philosopher  Rasmus  Nielsen.  Madame  Neergaard 
bade  me  put  my  thoughts  into  some  new  production.  My 
dear  old  friend,  Professor  Hartmann,  likewise  so  urged  me.  and 
I  wrote  the  words  for  a  five  act  opera,  “  Saul.” 

It  was  my  determination  that  when  peace,  which  was  now 
concluded,  brought  back  comfortable  times  to  Denmark,  I 
would  go  to  Norway,  where  I  never  yet  had  been  ;  see  the  roar¬ 
ing  cataracts,  the  deep  quiet  lakes,  the  country  where  my 
mother  tongue  resounds  with  a  metallic  ring  from  the  moun¬ 
tain  :  with  us  it  is  a  waving  speech,  as  if  from  the  bending 
beech  boughs.  I  wished  to  visit  Munch  and  Bjornstjerne 
Bjornson.  Affectionate  letters,  full  of  heartiness  and  trust,  were 
sent  to  me  during  our  heavy  days  of  trial.  With  what  friend¬ 
liness  Bjornson  estimated  me,  may  be  seen  in  a  few  lines  w'hich 
he  wrote  in  his  “  Sigurd  Slambe,  ”  and  sent  me  :  — 

“  Fancy  thou  gavest  wings 
To  fly  over  strange  things  and  great ; 

But  poesy  gavest  thou  to  my  heart 
That  knows  things  little  and  plain. 

“  When  my  soul  was  heavy  with  child, 

Thou  gavest  me  strength  with  growing  thought ; 

And  since  my  child  has  also  grown, 

Thou  feedest  me  with  thinking  too.” 

The  peace  did  not  have  a  very  certain  sound,  and  I  did  not 
go  to  Norway.  God  only  knows  whether  I  ever  shall  go. 

Epiphany  Eve  I  was  at  Madame  Ingemann’s  house  in  Soro. 
In  the  rooms  all  was  the  same  save  the  empty  chair ;  but  out¬ 
side,  how  changed  !  The  castle  gardener  had  certainly  beauti¬ 
fied  the  place  exceedingly.  The  academy  garden  was  thrown 
open,  with  plots  outside  the  academy,  but  half  of  Ingemann’s 
garden  had  to  be  taken  away  for  it.  This  included  the  choicest 
Dart ;  a  little  hill  with  great  trees  upon  it  had  disappeared. 

Madame  Ingemann  had  the  right  to  have  nothing  changed 
after  her  husband’s  death,  but  they  asked  her  permission,  and 
the  good  woman  answered  at  once,  Yes.  “  It  is  iideed  a  kind 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


503 


ness  that  I  should  be  asked,”  said  she,  “  a  favor  that  I  should 
continue  to  live  here.”  At  my  departure  I  received  a  great 
bouquet,  which  came  from  Madame  Ingemann,  and  from  So¬ 
phie  the  maid,  as  well,  who  had  added  to  it  from  flowers  that 
grew  in  the  pots  in  her  window.  My  year  closed  at  Basnos, 
the  darkest,  gloomiest  year  of  my  life. 

1865. 

New  Year’s  Day  opened  with  clear,  still  cold.  Every  one 
at  Basnos  drove  to  church,  but  I  had  more  need  to  stay  alone. 
In  a  churchly  frame  of  mind  I  went  into  the  garden,  where 
there  was  a  peacefulness  in  nature,  a  sacred  quiet.  I  felt  no 
anxiety  for  what  the  year  should  bring,  nor  yet  any  anticipa¬ 
tion.  This  New  Year’s  morning  is  the  only  one  I  know  when 
I  did  not  with  the  Basnos’  folk  have  a  wish  ready  to  ask.  Like 
a  sombre  night  of  terror,  the  past  year  lay  behind  me. 

We  were  all  invited  to  dinner  at  a  neighboring  place,  the 
Espes.  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  remain  at  home,  and  then 
suddenly  in  my  solitude  there  came  a  rush  of  thoughts  which 
developed  into  a  dramatic  poem,  “  The  Spaniards  were  here,” — - 
a  romantic  play  in  three  acts.”  I  could,  when  the  others  re¬ 
turned  late  in  the  evening,  have  related  the  movement  of  the 
action,  scene  by  scene.  My  thoughts  had  again  got  their  elas¬ 
ticity  :  I  was  absorbed  in  my  intellectual  labor,  and  my  soul  was 
lighter.  The  first  act  of  my  new  play  was  produced  at  Basnos, 
the  other  two  afterward  in  Copenhagen.  I  had  given  myself 
the  problem  that  the  chief  character,  the  Spaniard,  should  not 
appear  in  person  at  all.  I  would  not  let  him  talk  Danish  like 
the  others  in  the  piece.  One  heard  his  Spanish  song  behind 
the  scenes,  and  heard  the  shaking  of  the  castanets  ;  his  whole 
personality,  meanwhile,  was  to  stand  out  clear,  fine,  and  noble, 
without  his  being  visible  :  we  were  to  accompany  him  in  his 
love,  his  flight,  and  peril,  confident  that  a  year  and  a  day  would 
bring  the  hour  of  meeting  his  fortune  and  love. 

The  piece  was  undertaken  at  the  Royal  Theatre,  where  the 
then  manager,  State  Councilor  Kranold,  interested  himself  es¬ 
pecially  for  its  success.  My  friend,  Professor  Ploedt,  who  had 
great  influence  in  the  theatre,  showed  a  like  sympathy.  When 
the  evening  of  the  representation  came  there  was  quite  a  full 


504 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


house.  Their  majesties,  the  King  and  Queen,  were  present  at 
the  performance,  but  from  the  first  moment  there  rested  an  in¬ 
explicable  heaviness  on  the  spectators,  so  that  I  had  a  feeling 
as  if  I  were  at  some  funeral  gathering.  The  talented  young 
actress,  Miss  Lange,  who  took  the  part  of  the  romantic  young 
mistress,  was,  contrary  to  all  custom,  very  strongly  censured. 
Madame  Sodring,  the  public’s  special  favorite,  had  made  out 
of  the  court  lady  Dame  Hagenau  a  character  rather  strongly 
marked,  but  not  upon  the  first  representation  ;  only  after¬ 
ward  was  she  fully  estimated,  and  this  rble  is  now  named  as 
amongst  her  most  notable  ones.  Jastrau  sang  the  Spanish 
ballads  remarkably  well ;  but  he  also,  whose  singing  usually 
met  with  enthusiastic  applause,  got  none  of  that  now.  At  the 
fall  of  the  curtain,  clapping  and  hissing  were  mingled. 

At  the  second  representation,  and  always  afterward,  undi¬ 
vided  applause  attended  it.  The  actors  deserved  all  praise, 
and  especially,  Madame  Sodring.  The  public  is  sometimes 
like  wet  kindling-wood  that  will  not  catch  fire.  The  fault  can 
lie  in  the  dramatic  work,  too.  It  is  difficult  to  pronounce  an 
opinion  when  one’s  self  is  a  part  of  the  case,  but  it  has  been  my 
experience  that  several  of  my  compositions  have  suffered  their 
severest  condemnation  at  the  first  representation. 

For  more  than  a  year  and  a  day  had  I  written  no  wonder 
story,  my  soul  was  so  burdened ;  but  now,  as  soon  as  I  came 
out  into  the  country  to  friendly  Basnos,  to  the  fresh  woods  by 
the  open  sea,  I  wrote  “  The  Will-o’-the-Wisp  is  in  the  town,”  in 
which  was  told  why  it  was  that  the  wonder  stories  had  been 
so  long  unwritten :  because  without  was  war,  and  within  sor¬ 
row  and  want  that  war  brought  with  it.  The  scene  was  laid,  at 
Basnos.  Every  one  who  has  been  here  will  remember  the 
great  alleys,  the  old  grave-stone  which  once  lay  in  Skjelskjor 
over  a  councilor  and  his  six  wives.  A  new  storv  still  came 
forth,  the  week  after,  here  at  pretty  wooded  Frijsenborg. 
Since  my  former  visit  the  enemy  had  been  here,  but  now  there 
was  again  rest  and  happiness  :  the  entire  castle,  the  new  wing 
and  the  old  part,  was  occupied.  In  the  princely  apartments,  in 
the  blooming  garden,  with  kind  hearted  people  in  the  midst  ol 
all  the  happiness  which  well  doing  and  well  wishing  can  offer 
one,  several  weeks  flew  by,  and  I  wrote  the  Wonder  Story 
“  Gold  T  Veasure,”  as  well  also  as  “  In  the  Nursery.” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


505 

My  summer  journeying  closed  in  Zealand  with  friends  at 
Christinelund,  where  I  wrote  the  story,  “  The  Storm  shakes  the 
Sign-boards  :  ”  the  ink  was  not  dry  on  the  paper  when  I  read  it 
to  the  family,  «and  just  as  I  closed  the  reading,  there  came  a 
violent  blast  :  the  trees  bent,  the  leaves  were  sent  scattering; 
it  was  as  if  Nature  in  this  wild  storlh  were  playing  a  fantasia 
on  my  new  story.  When,  a  few  days  afterward,  I  left  Chris¬ 
tinelund,  there  Lay  still  by  the  road-side  great  trees  which  had 
been  torn  up  by  their  roots.  It  was  a  storm  that  might  well 
shake  the  sign-boards.  The  poet  is  just  ahead  of  his  time, 
they  say;  I  was  certainly  here  just  ahead  of  the  storm. 

I  was  soon  in  Copenhagen,  in  my  little  room,  among  my  pic¬ 
tures,  books,  and  flowers.  The  owner  of  the  house  was  an  ex¬ 
cellent,  practical,  and  cultivated  woman,  with  whom  I  had  now 
lived  eighteen  years,  and  from  whom  I  had  never  thought 
of  going  away  ;  but  I  was  nearer  that  than  I  supposed.  I  had 
just  at  this  time  received  a  letter  from  my  Portuguese  friend, 
the  Danish  Consul  at  Lisbon,  George  O’Neill,  who  with  his 
brother,  when  they  were  both  children,  was  brought  up  in 
Denmark  in  Admiral  WulfTs  house,  where  I  was  a  daily  visitor. 
George  O’Neill  and  I  had  lately  been  corresponding ;  he  in¬ 
vited  me  to  visit  him,  see  his  beautiful  country,  stay  with  him 
and  his  brother,  and  enjoy  myself  as  well  as  they  could  make 
me.  I  felt  a  desire  to  make  the  visit,  a  longing  to  meet  the 
friends  of  my  youth  again,  but  the  recollection  of  the  discom¬ 
forts  I  had  experienced  in  my  journey  to  Spain  made  me  re¬ 
luctant.  One  morning,  however,  my  excellent  landlady  came 
in  quite  cast  down,  and  said  that  we  must  separate,  and  that  in 
a  month’s  time.  Her  son  had  become  a  student,  and  she  had 
promised  him  that  if  he  passed  a  good  examination  he  should 
have  a  better  apartment  than  formerly  ;  she  had  moreover 
given  a  promise  to  take  in  a  young  boarder,  and  needed  thus 
my  chamber.  It  was  very  disagreeable  to  me.  I  had  spent  • 
eighteen  changing  years  with  these  friendly  people :  I  was  a 
neighbor  here,  also,  to  my  friend  the  composer  Hartmann, 
whom  I  daily  visited.  All  this  was  now  to  be  changed.  I  took 
it  as  an  indication  from  God  that  I  should  take  the  journey  to 
Portugal,  and  it  settled  the  matter.  Meanwhile  it  was  reported 
in  the  papers  that  the  cholera  was  in  Spain,  1  id  had  broken 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


506 

out  in  Portugal.  I  wrote  a  letter  to  George  O’Neili  about  it 
His  kind  answer  was  that  he  would  not  urge  me  to  come,  but 
would  be  exceedingly  happy  if  I  decided  thus  myself,  and  that 
I  was  to  stay  just  as  long  as  I  liked.  The  cholera  was  spread¬ 
ing  in  Spain,  but  only  a  single  case  had  shown  itself  in  Portu¬ 
gal.  I  decided  to  take  th£  journey,  but  not  to  go  south  at  once. 
I  wished  to  delay  and  to  go  to  Stockholm,  where  I  had  not 
been  for  a  long  time,  and  where  my  dear  friends,  the  author¬ 
ess  Fredrika  Bremer  and  the  writer  Baron  Beskow,  lived.  It 
was  in  the  charming  after-part  of  summer  that  I  set  out. 

The  first  time  that  I  visited  Stockholm  I  made  my  journey 
by  diligence,  and  was  a  whole  week  about  it.  Now  Sweden 
had  the  railway :  at  two  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  the  train 
started  from  Malmo,  and  in  the  evening  one  is  at  Jonkjoping, 
where  there  is  a  good  hotel,  and  as  well  managed  as  if  it 
were  in  Switzerland  :  the  next  morning  one  takes  his  place 
in  a  carriage,  and  is  at  Stockholm  in  the  afternoon.  How 
changed  !  what  a  flight !  Our  children  and  children’s  children 
live  in  the  time  of  conveniences.  We  old  folks  have  had  the 
line  of  trouble  midway  between  the  two  generations  :  we  stand, 
so  to  speak,  with  one  leg  in  one  generation  and  one  in  the 
other,  but  that  is  very  interesting. 

Beskow  was  out  in  the  country  when  I  got  there,  as  also 
Miss  Bremer,  but  both  were  expected  shortly ;  meanwhile 
I  wished  to  go  to  Upsala.  I  did  not  go  alone  ;  a  kind  Dan¬ 
ish  family,  Henriques,  whom  I  had  lately  learned  to  know  and 
to  feel  myself  at  home  with,  were  in  Stockholm,  and  they 
accompanied  me  to  Upsala.  Here  I  again  saw  my  friend 
Botticher,  who  married  Tegner’s  daughter  Disa,  author  of  many 
sweet  songs,  which,  set  to  Lindblad’s  music,  had  been  carried 
by  Jenny  Lind  out  into  Europe’s  world  of  song.  I  met  again 
Count  Hamilton  and  his  amiable  wife,  the  poet  Gejer’s  daugh- 
*  ter.  He  was  now  Chief  Proprietor,  and  lived  in  the  romantic¬ 
ally  placed  old  castle.  I  also  saw  again  the  composer  Joseph- 
son,  who  was  Jenny  Lind’s  godson,  when  he  was  christened. 
His  songs  sound  as  melodious  as  the  lay  of  the  thrush  in  the 
northern  birch  woods.  I  went,  to  see  him.  He  lived  in  the 
house  of  Linnaeus,  Sweden’s  world-renowned  botanist  of  former 
iays.  I  passed  a  charming  nusical  evening  with  Josephson. 


J  ffE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


507 

and  the  most  cordial  welcome  was  given  to  the  gifted  musi¬ 
cian,  Madame  Henriques,  from  Copenhagen.  In  the  evening 
we  returned  to  our  hotel.  The  Henriques  had  their  room  near 
mine,  and  I  had  already  lain  down,  when  I  heard  a  noise  in  the 
street  —  a  charming  song,  a  serenade.  Was  it  for  me  ?  —  I  knew 
the  good-will  my  young  Swedish  friends  bore  me  — or  was  it 
given  to  Madame  Henriques  ?  I  sprang  out  of  bed,  went  to 
the  window,  and  sat  behind  the  curtain.  The  singers  turned 
their  faces  all  toward  my  neighbors’  windows.  So  doubtless 
Madame  Henriques  got  it !  I  received  from  the  students  at 
Upsala  an  invitation  to  a  festival  to  be  given  in  the  summer 
hall,  which  was  adorned  with  flags,  especially  the  Danish  one. 
The  Chief  Proprietor  and  several  of  the  older  members  of  the 
University  took  part  in  it.  The  author  Bjorck,  son  of  the 
Bishop  of  Gotheborg,  a  true  poet  of  great  genius  —  God  has 
since  called  him  to  Himself — greeted  me  with  a  pretty  poem 
that  did  me  too  much  honor. 

The  song  was  sung  ;  the  conversation  was  very  lively  and 
nearty.  I  read  three  of  my  Wonder  Stories,  —  “  The  Butter¬ 
fly,”  “  The  Fir-tree,”  and  “  The  Ugly  Duckling,”  and  received 
loud  applause,  and  then  was  escorted  amidst  singing  by  the 
students  to  my  home.  The  stars  shone,  the  new  moon  was 
glimmering,  it  was  a  lovely,  quiet  evening,  and  up  in  the  north 
the  horizon  was  flaming  with  Northern  Lights.  When  the  next 
day  I  came  to  Stockholm,  I  found  in  the  hotel  an  invitation  to 
visit  the  King  at  his  pleasure  castle,  Ulriksdal,  which  is  situa- 
ed  a  few  miles  from  Stockholm,  in  the  midst  of  woods  and 
acks,  on  a  bay  running  in  from  the  salt  sea.  After  a  lower¬ 
ing  sky,  the  rain  poured  down  and  there  was  a  great  storm,  so 
that  I  was  obliged  to  get  to  the  castle  immediately,  without  see¬ 
ing  anything  of  the  picturesque  environs.  As  I  sat  a  moment 
alone  in  the  fine  large  hall,  a  gentleman  stepped  in,  reached  out 
his  hand  to  me,  and  gave  me  a  hearty  welcome.  I  pressed  his 
hand  in  return,  but  while  I  talked  it  came  out  that  it  was  the 
King  himself.  For  a  moment  I  had  not  known  him.  He  took 
me  himself  about  the  castle,  and  before  sitting  at  table  pre¬ 
sented  me  to  the  Queen,  who  in  her  appearance  reminded  me  of 
the  noble  —  now  dead  —  Grand  Duchess  of  Weimar,  whose  re¬ 
lation  she  was.  The  young  and  not  yet  confirmed  Crown  Prin- 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIRA. 


508 

cess  Louise  shook  hands  with  me  in  a  friendly  way  and 
thanked  me  for  the  pleasure  she  had  had  in  reading  my  stories. 
She  made  a  very  pleasant  impression  upon  me  by  her  natural¬ 
ness,  her  trustworthiness,  and  child-like  affection.  She  is  now 
the  Danish  Crown  Prince  Frederick’s  betrothed,  and  soon  will 
be  our  Crown  Princess.  God  bless  the  young  couple.  A  lively 
conversation  was  carried  on  at  the  table.  The  King  and  Queen 
and  all  about  were  cordial  and  kindly  disposed  toward  me. 
When  coffee  was  brought  in,  the  King  took  me  to  his  smoking 
room  and  presented  me  with  the  latest  books  of  his  own  writ¬ 
ers.  It  was  a  charming  day,  one  full  of  happiness,  that  spent 
with  my  royal  patron. 

A  few  days  after  I  was  called  to  an  audience  and  dinner  at 
the  Queen  Dowager’s  at  Drotningholm,  where  also  Prince  Os¬ 
car  with  his  family  lived.  I  went  out  there  by  steamer,  and 
was  surprised  at  the  splendid  castle  with  its  garden !  I  was 
reminded  of  the  villa  Albano  at  Rome,  but  Drotningholm  has 
more  beauty  ;  it  lies  on  an  arm  of  Lake  Malar.  I  had  not 
seen  her  majesty  since  her  husband  King  Oscar  died.  How 
much  had  there  not  passed  in  the  world  between  that  time 
and  this.  She  seemed  to  me  just  as  before,  lively  and  kind. 
We  talked  for  a  long  time  together,  when  she  was  simple  and 
gracious,  open  and  cordial.  Before  dinner  one  of  the  gentle¬ 
men  of  the  house  took  me  around  the  garden  ;  there  was 
something  very  bright  and  sunny  about  all  of  Drotningholm. 
When  her  majesty  said  good-by  after  dinner,  she  added,  — 
“  You  came  by  the  steamboat,  but  that  is  gone  ;  but  here  is 
a  carriage  at  your  service  whenever  you  yourself  wish  to  order 
it.”  She  gave  me  in  charge  to  one  of  the  chamberlains,  who 
was  to  show  me  the  halls  of  the  castle.  As  we  began  our 
walk  Prince  Oscar  came  up,  and  showed  me  the  historic  and 
artistic  treasures,  and  took  me  into  his  private  garden,  where 
he  showed  me  his  children  and  a  little  oak  also.  He  told  me 
that  he  was  betrothed  to  his  wife  on  the  Rhine,  and  that  when 
.hey  went  there  a  year  after,  an  acorn  then  planted  had  grown 
into  a  two-leaved  tree,  which  they  took  up  and  transplanted 
in  a  little  flower  pot  and  set  out  here  in  the  garden  ;  it  was 
now  higher  than  I.  When  I  was  taking  a  leaf  from  the  near¬ 
est  tree  as  a  souvenir  of  my  visit  at  Drotningholm,  the  Prince 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


509 


pave  me  a  branch  from  this  tree.  Lake  Malar  was  before 
the  castle,  and  quite  hanging  over  the  water-  was  a  great 
willow-tree.  It  was  when  Drotningholm  was  put  in  order, 
in  the  time  of  Charles  XII.’s  mother,  and  the  quay  was 
built,  that  many  trees  and  bushes  were  taken  away.  Popular 
belief  said  then  that  this  tree  lived  and  put  forth  its  leave? 
with  the  kingly  race.  When  King  John  lay  sick  the  tree  with¬ 
ered  and  came  near  dying,  the  old  kingly  race  was  near  dying 
out ;  but  when  King  John’s  grandson,  Sweden’s  present  king, 
was  born,  the  old  willow  grew  green  again.  It  was  almost 
dark  night  when  I  left  hospitable  Drotningholm  ;  as  I  stepped 
into  the  carriage,  the  composer  Wennerberg,  came  up,  Swe¬ 
den’s  Bell  man  of  our  time,  both  in  music  and  words.  We 
pressed  one  another’s  hands  and  separated  with  the  wrarm 
feeling  which  is  natural  to  Sweden’s  skalds  and  thier  youthful¬ 
ness. 

The  next  evening,  when  in  Stockholm,  I  visited  the  River 
Garden,  which  the  little  island  under  the  bridge  is  called  which 
joins  the  castle  holm  to  the  north  holm,  where  there  is  a  cafe, 
and  in  the  evening  an  illumination  and  music.  I  was  in  com¬ 
pany  writh  a  number  of  young  and  old  authors  and  artists ;  the 
highly  gifted  and  very  genial  dramatic  writer  Blancha  came 
in  ;  he  was  greeted  with  great  delight  and  brought  to  me. 
“  Art  thou  there,  brother  ?  ”  he  cried  with  a  bright  face,  and 
embraced  and  kissed  me.  I  mention  it,  because  while  I  was 
surprised  at  the  feast  which  gave  me  so  much  pleasure,  I  knew 
that  we  never  had  drunken  Thous  to  each  other. 

In  Sweden  it  is  so  common  that  I  can  well  understand  that 
when  young  or  old  men  with  mutual  interests  in  intellectual 
matters  come  together,  all  titles  are  thrown  away,  and  they 
express  themselves  naturally  with  the  confidential  thou  ;  so 
that  after  a  time  of  festivity  or  lively  meeting  one  easily,  when 
years  have  gone  by  and  he  sees  me  again,  is  sure  that  we 
know  one  another,  are  friends,  and  even  that  we  have  most 
certainly  drunk  thou  to  each  other.  This  the  vivacious 
Blancha  now  believed  and  I  held  my  peace  and  answered 
with  a  thou ,  and  clinked  glasses  with  my  Thou  brother.  That 
will  never  again  occur,  for  he  also  belongs  to  the  great  ones 
who  have  left  us.  In  1868,  at  a  festival,  when  Charles  XII.’s 


510  '  the  STORY  OF  MY  LITh.. 

\ 

monument  was  to  be  dedicated,  Blancha  suddenly  fell  dead  in 
the  street. 

o 

Miss  Bremer  was  in  the  country  at  her  estate  Arsta.  As 
soon  as  she  heard  of  my  coming  she  invited  me  there  for  a 
long  visit,  but  when  this  could  not  be  managed  on  my  part 
she  came  to  Stockholm.  I  had  not  seen  her  or  talked  with 
her  since  she  with  our  American  friends,  Marcus  Spring  and 
his  wife,  visited  Denmark.  So  much  meanwhile  had  hap¬ 
pened  !  We  talked  about  the  Springs,  and  about  Henriette 
Wulffs  death  in  the  burning  ship  on  her  voyage  to  America  : 
we  talked  of  Denmark’s  sorrowful  davs  of  trial.  The  tears 

j 

fell  down  the  cheeks  of  the  noble,  compassionate  woman. 
We  talked  of  Jenny  Lind,  of  much  that  was  now  gone  by. 

“  I  am  always  a  steadfast  friend,  Andersen,”  said  she,  and 
her  delicate  hand  grasped  mine.  It  was  the  last  time  for  this 
life:  with  Christmas  came  the  sorrowful  tidings,  —  Fredrika 
Bremer  is  dead.  She  had  taken  cold  in  church,  had  come 
home,  and  passed  quietly  into  the  sleep  of  death.  Another 
of  my  faithful  friends  was  lost  to  me  for  this  world.  In  her 
letters  I  have  a  treasure  and  a  memory. 

The  writer  Baron  Beskow  had  come  to  town,  and  had  for 
my  gratification  invited  a  select  company,  whom  I  was  to 
meet.  I  have  his  letter  that  gives  the  programme :  — 

“  Tuesday,  October  3,  1865. 

“  Dear  Friend,  —  I  went  to  see  you  yesterday,  to  name 
those  who  are  to  come  to  our  little  dinner  party  to-morrow, 
namely,  the  Librarian  of  the  Royal  Library,  Rydquist  (our 
Tacob  Grimm),  the  Antiquary  Hildebrandt  (our  Thomsen), 
he  keeper  of  the  archives  Bovwalius  (our  Wegener),  the 
dkald  (talis  qualis)  Strandberg  (the  translator  of  Byrcn),  C.  G. 
Stranaberg  (the  translator  of  Anacreon),  Tander,  who  is  per¬ 
sonally  known  to  you,  and  Dahlgren  (who  is  the  author  of  a 
national  drama,  which  has  been  given  one  hundred  and  thirty 
times  ;  the  translator,  also,  of  Calderon,  etc.).  You  see  ths 
guests  are  not  many  but  they  are  select.  You  will  be  wel* 
come  to-morrow  at  four  o’clock,  by  your  old  friend, 

“  Beskow.” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  5II 

It  was  a  cozy  party,  with  a  spirit  of  intellectual  freedom  and 
heartiness  about  it. 

It  was  twenty-five  years  since  I  had  been  in  Sweden’s  uni¬ 
versity  town  of  Lund.  In  1840  I  received  here  the  first  pub¬ 
lic  reception  that  was  ever  given  me  ;  the  students  came  with 
music  and  speeches.  I  have  told  about  it  in  “  The  Story  of  my 
Life,”  and  have  said  how  overcome  I  was  at  this  expression 
of  regard.  It  seemed  to  me  then  as  if  I  dared  not  come  here 
again  in  years  to  come  —  that  such  a  feast  could  never  again 
be  given  me.  Five-and-twenty  years  had  gone  by  since  that. 
I  should  meet  a  whole  new  generation.  The  journey  home 
carried  me  close  by  ;  I  wanted  to  spend  a  day  or  two  in  the 
town  so  friendly  to  my  youth,  to  visit  the  old  church,  see  the 
new  college  building  which  I  had  never  seen.  Some  friends 
in  Upsala  had  given  me  letters  to  a  few  of  the  Professors  in  the 
University,  when  I  said  that  I  was  now  a  stranger  in  Lund. 

The  long  journey  by  rail  was  still  a  play  of  color  in  the 
woods  ;  the  yellow  birch,  the  dark-green  pines,  and  vermilion 
thorns,  wooden  houses  with  black  roofs  and  white  chimneys, 
the  stony  soil,  the  bold  cliffs,  and  the  great  full  sea  were  con¬ 
stantly  appearing  in  turn.  I  reached  Lund  in  the  evening  ;  I 
knew  nobody,  and  believed  that  nobody  knew  me.  I  sought 
the  hotel  and  went  early  in  the  evening  to  bed,  weary  from 
my  journey.  Soon  I  heard  singing;  some  students  were  hav¬ 
ing  a  supper  at  the  hotel  in  honor  of  some  who  were  leaving. 
The  singing  sounded  sweetly,  and  soon  it  sounded  just  out 
side  my  door.  The  young  friends  knew  I  was  here,  but  when 
they  heard  that  I  had  lain  down  to  rest  they  went  back  again. 

I  was  commended  to  Professor  Olde,  and  Linngreen  gave 
me  also  a  pleasant  dinner  with  an  intellectual  company  : 
during  the  dinner  there  came  an  invitation  from  the  students, 
who  had  hastily  decorated  a  hall  to  give  a  feast  to  me,  with  a 
youthful  enthusiasm  such  as  their  fellows  at  Upsala  had  also 
shown  toward  me. 

At  seven  o’clock  in  the  evening  Professor  Linngreen  took 
me  there.  The  hall  was  splendidly  decorated.  The  walls  were 
dressed  with  the  arms  of  the  provinces^  and  over  each  waved 
a  Swedish  and  a  Danish  flag;  at  the  stand  also  was  planted 
die  flag  which  the  ladies  of  Copenhagen  had  worked  for  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


512 

students  of  Lund.  The  hall  and  apartments  were  filled  with 
the  old  and  young  members  of  the  University  ;  after  the  eat¬ 
ing  came  the  speech-making,  and  I  was  welcomed  from  the 
stand  by  the  spokesman  of  the  students.  I  have  kept  the 
memory  of  what  was  said,  but  not  the  very  words  in  which  it 
was  said  :  “  Five-and  twenty  years  ago  the  students  of  Lund 
gave  me  a  welcome  and  greeting.  The  current  was  still  the 
same,  but  it  was  another  generation  ;  exactly  a  generation  had 
grown  up  under  my  writings,  which  had  been  to  them  spiritual 
sustenance,  for  which  they  owed  me  thanks  and  love.” 

Singing  followed,  and  a  young  poet,  Wendel,  read  a  pretty 
poem  to  me,  and  I  expressed  my  gratitude  by  reading  three  of 
my  Wonder  Stories,  —  “  The  Butterfly,”  “  The  Happy  Family,” 
and  “  It  is  certainly  so.”  Each  one  was  received  with  shouts 
of  applause,  and  now  there  followed  in  quick  succession  Dan¬ 
ish  and  Swedish  songs,  which  were  so  familiar,  so  full  of  young- 
hearted  warmth,  that  it  was  again  an  evening  of  fortune  which 
shines  in  my  memory.  The  whole  gathering  followed  me  to  the 
hotel  where  I  was  staying,  arm  in  arm  ;  the  procession  marched 
out  to  the  sound  of  singing  from  the  college  building  past 
the  old  church  ;  we  stopped  for  a  moment  by  Tegner’s  monu¬ 
ment,  and  then  moved  on  with  song  through  the  quiet  streets 
emptied  of  townsfolk.  When  I  stood  at  my  door  they  gave 
me  nine  cheers.  Moved  to  deep  gladness,  I  expressed  my 
thanks,  and  reached  my  little  chamber,  humble  and  yet  lifted 
up  in  heart,  when  there  sounded  still  from  the  street  a  song 
which  was  the  very  melody  that  five-and-twenty  years  before 
had  been  sung  at  my  festival  in  Lund  in  1841.  God  grant 
every  one  of  these  young  friends  that  gladness  of  life  which  I 
felt  this  evening. 

As  soon  as  I  came  to  Copenhagen  I  went  into  a  hotel,  for  I 
was  still  a  traveller  and  about  to  go  to  Portugal ;  but  the  route 
thither  by  sea  from.  France  was  not  attractive  in  the  stormy 
autumn  ;  in  Spain  it  was  unquiet.  The  paper  spoke  of  Prim’s 
troops  that  were  in  movement  on  the  border  near  Badajos,  —  the 
very  route  I  should  have  to  take  if  I  went  by  land.  I  decided 
to  wait  here  at  home  some  time  and  see  how  things  turned  out. 

The  pleasantest  picture  which  my  memory  holds  of  this 
time  is  a  short  and  charming  visit  at  Fredensborg.  The  King 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


5 1 3 

was  so  gracious  as  to  receive  me.  Two  apartments  in  the  cas- 
de  were  given  me,  and  I  found,  as  always,  the  most  cordial,  if 
I  dare  use  the  expression,  most  friendly  reception.  The  King’s 
family  wished  to  hear  me  read  my  last  written  stories.  I  have 
seen  all  the  King’s  children  grow  up,  and  always  from  their 
childhood  they  have  given  me  the  hands  of  friends.  To  know 
this  family  is  to  be  drawn  to  them,  —  it  is  such  a  charming 
household,  full  of  affection  and  a  temperate  life.  The  Queen 
has  great  good  sense,  and  an  inborn  talent  for  painting  and 
music  ;  of  the  King’s  noble  heart  and  amiable  character  one 
sees  many  beautiful  traits.  All  the  King’s  children  have  heard 
me  read  my  Wonder  Stories,  —  the  Crown  Prince  Frederick 
and  his  brother,  now  King  of  Greece,  the  princesses  Alexandra 
and  Dagmar.  Now  there  sat  here  the  two  youngest  children, 
Princess  Thyra  and  little  Valdemar,  who  had  this  evening 
got  a  promise  that  he  should  stay  up  half  an  hour  longer  so 
that  he  could  hear  a  part  of  the  reading. 

The  next  day  I  made  a  few  pleasant  calls.  Off  in  the  gar¬ 
den  of  the  castle,  in  one  of  the  buildings,  lived  my  friend,  the 
poet  Paludan-Miiller,  of  whom  I  have  previously  spoken.  He 
is  master  of  the  Danish  tongue,  as  Byron  and  Riickert  were 
masters  of  their  mother  tongues,  so  that  he  made  music  of  it. 
Every  one  of  his  poems  discovers  a  profoundly  poetic  soul. 
“  Adam  Hama,”  “  The  Marriage  of  the  Dryad,”  “  The  Death 
of  Abel,”  will  always  be  read  and  admired.  As  a  man  Pa- 
ludan-Moller  has  something  so  naive,  frank,  and  good  that 
one  immediately  feels  drawn  toward  him. 

Still  another  happy  house  I  was  to  visit  in  Fredensborg 
was  that  of  my  friend  the  rare  artist  and  ballet-writer  Au¬ 
gust  Bournonville,  who  has  raised  his  kind  of  art  on  the  Dan¬ 
ish  stage,  so  that  it  occupies  a  worthy  place  among  the  best 
of  all  arts.  In  Paris  they  have  more  distinguished  dancers 
than  we,  more  decorations  and  extraordinary  arrangements 
intermingled  with  the  dancing,  but  such  richness  in  truly 
poetic  ballet  composition  as  Bournonville  has  given,  only  Co¬ 
penhagen  possesses  ;  there  is  a  beauty,  a  noble  purity,  some¬ 
thing  very  refined  and  characteristic  in  the  great  circle  oi 
ballets  which  he  has  given  us.  It  would  be  a  complete  re¬ 
pertoire  if  we  were  to  mention  all  that  one  or  another  has 


5*4 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  L.  FE. 


pronounced  excellent,  but  most  will  certainly  agree  in  naming 
“  Napoli,”  “  Kermesson  in  Bruges,”  “The  Conservatory,”  and 
u  A  Folk  Story.'”  Bournonville  can  perhaps  rightly  blame  ua 
if  we  do  not  also  here  mention  a  couple  of  his  historic  ballets, 
“  Waldemar,”  with  popular  and  beautiful  music  by  Frolich,  and 
“  Valkyrien,”  which  has  the  grand  music  so  full  of  melodies, 
by  J.  P.  E.  Hartmann. 

Bournonville,  who  is  the  creator  and  manager  of  the  ballet 
of  our  day  on  the  Danish  stage,  has  at  the  same  time  a  father’s 
interest  in  all  those  who  take  part  in  his  works.  He  is  of  a 
warm,  affectionate  nature,  and  a  good  comrade.  When  one  en¬ 
ters  his  homelike  house  he  finds  it  full  of  sunshine,  and  sees 
his  pretty  lively  wife  and  well-behaved  children. 

I  saw  the  familiar  home  life  in  the  King’s  castle  :  I  saw  it 
also  in  two  smaller  homes,  equally  full  of  sunshine,  those  of 
my  friends  Paludan- Muller  and  Bournonville.  To  the  latter  I 
had  just  now  dedicated  my  latest  Wonder  Stories  which  I  read 
to  the  King’s  family.  Bournonville  took  me  to  his  arms  and 
expressed  his  hearty  thanks,  just  as  he  had  often  encouraged 
me  by  word  and  by  writing,  giving  me  confidence  and  lifting 
my  soul  when  one  and  another  called  friends  had  made  me 
discontented. 

At  Copenhagen  I  was  as  restless  as  a  traveller  who  cannot 
reach  his  destination.  The  cholera  was  in  Paris,  and  how  that 
would  affect  my  health  and  peace  in  Spain  I  could  not  get  in¬ 
formed,  but  I  hoped  to  learn  it  immediately  after  the  new  year. 
Circumstances  must  determine  my  journey,  and  show  how  far 
south  I  should  go.  Christmas  and  the  first  days  of  the  new 
year  I  spent  at  Holsteinborg  and  Basnos.  There  I  received  a 
letter  filled  with  the  perfume  of  violets.  George  O’Neill  sent 
these  as  greetings  from  the  spring  which  awaited  me  at  Lis 
bon. 


1866. 

At  Amsteidam  I  have  two  prosperous  and  excellent  fellow- 
countrymen,  the  brothers  Brandt ;  I  received  from  both  of 
them  a  cordial  letter,  with  an  invitation  to  stay  during  my  en¬ 
tire  visit  with  the  elder  of  the  brothers,  who  is  gifted,  as  1 
came  to  know,  with  one  of  the  noblest,  most  thoughtful  women 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


515 

of  Holland  for  a  wife.  Only  once  before  had  I  been  in  Hol¬ 
land,  in  the  year  1847,  when  I  first  visited  England.  I  then  met 
at  the  Hague  so  much  good-will  and  attention  that  I  received  a 
constant  feast  of  good  things,  of  which  I  have  before  spoken. 

The  first  of  the  friends  who  then  came  to  see  me  was  now 
dead,  the  publisher  of  “  De  Tijd,”  Van  der  Vliet,  but  I  re¬ 
membered  the  names  of  dear  friends  who  looked  for  my  com¬ 
ing ;  such  were  the  old,  highly  honored  writer,  Van  Lennep, 
the  distinguished  composer  Verhulst,  the  author  Kneppel- 
hout,  and  the  remarkable  tragic  actor  Peters.  Now  I  could 
for  a  longer  time  be  with  these,  and  see  what  especially  be¬ 
longs  to  Amsterdam,  and  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  family  life 
there. 

The  last  of  January  I  left  Copenhagen  by  the  evening  train. 
It  was  winter  time;  the  water  was  open,  but- it  was  cold.  I 
was,  it  seemed  to  me,  well  provided  with  travelling  luggage. 
It  seemed  to  one  of  my  friends,  however,  that  this  was  not 
the  case,  for  he  came  in  the  morning  and  left  a  whole  lot 
of  well  lined  travelling  boots  spread  out  on  the  floor ;  the 
largest  and  best  pair  was  to  be  his  good-by  souvenir.  I 
mention  this  little  incident,  and  could  in  my  life  name  num¬ 
berless  others  of  like  character,  the  acts  of  individual  friends. 
The  words  of  sympathy  and  willingness  to  serve  me  which  he 
expressed  so  earnestly  showed  me  clearly  what  a  friend  I  had, 
and  how  large  a  place  I  was  made  to  have  in  his  noble  home 
circle.  I  shall  hereafter  come  to  speak  of  this  home,  when  at 
the  close  of  these  pages  I  speak  of  the  week-day  and  Sunday 
homes  which  I  have,  so  to  speak,  in  my  father-land. 

From  Korsor  by  Funen  through  the  Grand  Duchy  we  went 
in  rapid  journey.  At  Haderslev  I  saw  the  Prussian  soldiery. 
I  felt  in  an  unhappy  mood  and  depressed.  I  occupied  the 
coupe  with  a  young  Prussian  officer  and  his  still  younger  wife, 
obliging  people.  I  did  not  know  them,  nor  they  me.  Later 
in  the  evening,  at  Altona  station,  while  I  stepped  out  of  the 
carriage,  there  came  an  older  man  with  a  little  girl,  who  looked 
at  me  and  said  in  German  to  the  child,  “  Give  your  hand  to 
(hat  man.  It  is  Andersen,  who  has  written  the  pretty  stories.” 
He  smiled  at  me,  the  child  reached  out  her  hand,  and  I  patted 
her  cheek.  This  little  incident  put  me  in  good  humor,  and 


5i6  THE  STORY  CF  MY  LIFE. 

soon  I  was  in  my  old  home  in  Hamburg,  the  Hotel  de  FEtt* 
rope. 

The  next  day  I  drew  near  Celle,  where  I  had  only  been  in 
i  S 3 1,  on  my  first  journey.  I  wished  to  visit  the  unhappy  Queen 
Mathilde’s  grave,  and  the  castle  where  she  spent  the  last  years 
of  her  life.  In  the  “  French  Garden  ”  there  is  shown  a  mon¬ 
ument  of  her  made  of  a  block  of  marble  ;  there  was  a  wooden 
penthouse  over  it  to  keep  off  the  winter  snow ;  it  looked  like 
a  bai  rack. 

In  one  of  the  apartments  of  the  castle  there  hung  a  large 
portrait  of  Queen  Mathilde,  very  different  from  the  earlier  one 
I  had  seen  in  Denmark.  The  picture  I  saw  was  beautiful, 
and  the  expression  reminded  me  of  Frederick  VI. 

I  left  Hanover  by  the  Westphalian  Gate,  and  came  oy  rail 
to  Rheine,  approaching  the  Holland  border.  It  was  late 
evening  and  a  storm  raged.  Nearly  all  the  lamps  in  the 
carriage  had  gone  out,  and  it  was  black  night  within  and  with¬ 
out.  I  thought  to  myself,  if  this  turns  out  well  it  is  a  good 
thing.  We  whizzed  away  as  if  driven  by  the  storm,  and  when 
we  drew  near  the  station  at  Rheine,  it  seemed  as  if  here  also 
all  the  lights  had  been  blown  out.  A  man  stumbled  ahead 
with  a  lantern  :  that  was  to  light  us  while  we  crossed  the  iron 
rails  and  eyed  the  procession  that  was  in  motion  behind  and 
before  us.  I  came  to  the  hotel  which  was  pointed  out;  it  d;d 
not  look  very  inviting  outside,  and  proved  very  frugal,  with 
low-studded  rooms,  slow  attendance,  with  black  and  sour 
bread.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  gone  back  thirty  years,  and  was  trav¬ 
elling  in  a  little  town.  Many  call  that  the  time  of  romance  1 
I  prefer  the  time  of  modern  conveniences  —  our  time. 

The  next  day  I  entered  Holland  ;  the  carriage  contained 
also  a  gentleman  wearing  decorations,  a  Hollander.  In  the 
course  of  conversation  he  heard  that  I  was  from  Denmark. 
“  You  will  meet  with  a  distinguished  countryman  of  yours  in 
A  msterdam,”  said  he  ;  “  Andersen  is  there.”  I  doubted  that, 
a  id  said  that  I  was  Andersen. 

At  the  station  in  Amsterdam  the  brothers  Brandt  met  me, 
and  took  me  to  my  new  home  with  the  oldest  of  the  brothers. 
It  was  a  large,  fine  house,  with  garden  and  trees,  outside  by  the 
canal  called  Heerengraacht,  in  the  prettiest  part  of  the  town 


THE  STOR  Y  OF  MY  LIFE.  5  I  7 

I  was  received  as  an  old  friend  by  people  whom  I  saw  for  the 
first  time.  The  mother  and  sons  in  the  house  spoke  excellent 
Danish  ;  they  both  made  a  good  impression  upon  me.  The 
master  of  the  house  himself  was  full  of  animation  and  atten¬ 
tion  to  my  wants.  I  had  at  once  the  delightful  sense  of  being 
blessed  with  good  friends.  Here,  as.in  England  and  Scotland, 
there  is  a  pleasing  patriarchal  custom  with  household  and  ser¬ 
vants,  of  having  a  religious  season  morning  and  evening.  The 
whole  household  is  gathered  for  the  reading  of  the  Bible, 
which  is  followed  by  a  psalm  that  gave  a  restful  feeling  to  my 
soul.  There  was  much  sociability  here.  The  evenings  passed 
with  music,  song,  and  reading.  Many  more  than  I  had  sup¬ 
posed  spoke  Danish.  I  read  nearly  eveiy  evening  a  few  of 
my  Wonder  Stories  and  Tales  ;  if  the  company  was  large,  they 
were  given  in  French,  English,  or  German  translation;  The 
elder  Mr.  Brandt  was  quite  good  at  giving  on  the  spot  a  Dutch 
translation  of  the  Danish  book  which  he  had  before  him. 

Soon  after  my  arrival  I  received  an  invitation  from  the 
management  of  the  Stadt  Theatre,  three  of  the  most  eminent 
actors,  among  whom  was  the  distinguished  tragedian,  Mr. 
Peters,  to  occupy  any  place  which  I  might  prefer  during  my 
entire  visit.  I  had  individual  friends  in  Amsterdam  of  long 
standing  whom  I  must  visit.  The  town  itself  I  became  more 
familiar  with  than  before.  This  time  it  was  no  flying  visit 
which  I  made,  but  a  stay  of  several  weeks. 

Amsterdam  is  not  Holland’s  capital,  but  its  chief  city,  the 
most  extensive  and  active  town  in  the  country,  —  a  very  Venice 
of  the  North.  The  town  is  built  upon  piles  in  mud  and  water. 
The  learned  Erasmus  characterized  it  when  he  said,  “  I  have 
come  to  a  city  whose  inhabitants  live  like  crows  on  tops  of 
trees.”  Many  an  overflowing  grain  depot  has  given  way  when 
the  foundation  was  not  strong  enough  to  sustain  it;  many  a 
house  pitched  uneasily  toward  the  street,  only  held  in  place 
by  its  stronger  neighboring  dwellings.  There  is  a  net-work 
of  canals,  as  in  Venice ;  but  they  are  made  wider,  and  have 
streets  on  both  sides,  where  wagons  rumble,  —  a  thing  which 
Venice  does  not  know.  The  principal  street  of  the  town, 
Kalver  Straat,  stretches  small  and  crooked  from  the  Amstel 
up  to  the  square  where  the  Town  Hall  stands,  on  ground  rest 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


5‘S 

ing  on  piles,  and  where  the  Exchange,  with  its  rows  of  Grecian 
pillars,  is  the  noticeable  point  of  the  town.  What  always 
shocked  my  eye  in  Amsterdam  was  the  striking  costume  worn 
by  the  children  in  the  Orphan  House  ;  perhaps  the  disagree¬ 
ableness  for  me  lay  in  the  fact  that  one  only  sees  a  similar 
dress  on  our  criminals  in. Denmark,  who  work  in  servitude, — 
the  one  side  of  their  clothes  being  gray,  the  other  brown.  In 
Amsterdam  the  poor  orphans  go  about,  girls  and  boys,  with 
one  side  red,  the  other  black.  The  boys’  jackets  and  trou¬ 
sers,  and  also  the  girls’  waists  and  skirts,  are  two  sorts,  black 
and  red. 

I  visited  a  few  of  the  schools  for  the  poor,  and  heard  the 
singing  of  the  children.  I  saw  the  Jews’  quarter,  the  Art  Gal¬ 
lery  and  Museum,  and  what  was  especially  new  and  wonderful 
to  me,  the  Zoological  Gardens  —  that  was  the  most  interesting 
of  any  I  know.  In  summer  there  is  music  here  :  now  one 
could  only  hear  the  fearful  beasts’  howl  ;  the  shrieking  parrots 
and  cockatoos  made  their  noises ;  a  little  blackbird  had 
learned  to  say  a  few  Dutch  words,  which  it  repeated  inces¬ 
santly.  There  was  a  grand  collection  here  of  wolves,  bears, 
tigers,  and  hyenas  ;  the  kingly  lion  and  the  clumsy  elephant. 
The  llamas  cast  their  spittle  at  us ;  the  eagle  looked  with  its 
numan,  wise  —  much  too  wise  —  glance  at  us;  what  splendid 
dress  of  feathers  he  wore !  In  such  a  collection  of  feathered 
fowls  one  learns  to  despise  what  the  dyer’s  art  can  do.  Black 
swans  swam  in  the  basins  ;  seals  came  out  and  sunned  them¬ 
selves  ;  but  the  most  interesting,  because  most  novel  to  me, 
were  the  hippopotamuses,  male  and  female,  in  their  deep 
water  ponds.  They  raised  their  ugly  heads  several  times 
above  the  water,  and  displayed  their  great  mouths  with  big 
teeth  far  apart.  Their  skin  reminded  me  of  hogs’  skin  with¬ 
out  the  bristles.  There  had  just  been  born  a  young  one. 
The  keeper  had  to  watch  night  and  day  for  the  coming  of  the 
.ittle  creature  to  secure  it  before  it  should  be  killed  by  the 
male.  The  young  fellow  had  his  own  house  provided  like  his 
parents.  He  ducked  under  the  water  when  I  entered.  The 
keeper  knew  how  to  poke  him  out;  he  was  as  big  as  a  fat¬ 
tened  calf,  had  dusky  eyes,  and  a  reddish  yellow  hide  thar 
looked  like  a  fish  skin  minus  its  scales.  His  future  was 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  519 

already  provided  for,  for  he  had  been  sold  to  the  Zoological 
Garden  at  Cologne. 

The  days  flew  by  all  too  rapidly  in  Amsterdam  ;  there 
was  so  much  to  see,  sq  many  acquaintances  to  visit.  The 
three  oldest  ones  I  had,  dating  from  my  first  stay  here,  were 
the  honored  old  writer  Van  Lennep,  the  composer  Verhulst, 
and  the  actor  Peters.  My  dear  friend  Van  Lennep  was  an 
old  man,  with  silver  white  hair  like  Thorwaldsen.  He  spoke 
jestingly  of  the  likeness  of  his  face  to  Voltaire,  and  said  it  was 
more  wrinkled  and  satiric  now.  He  said  that  he  was  at  work 
upon  the  since  completed  romance,  “The  Seven  Stars.”  A 
few  of  his  best  known  dramatic  works  have  recently  been  put 
upon  the  stage,  and  he  promised  that  during  my  stay  here  I 
should  see  acted  his  tragedy,  “  De  Vrouwe  van  Wardenburg.” 

The  composer  Verhulst,  whom  I  next  visited,  met  me  with 
rejoicing.  His  first  question  was  about  our  common  friend 
Niels  Gade,  who  of  all  contemporary  composers  he  placed 
the  highest.  He  showed  me  how  thoroughly  he  studied  his 
compositions  ;  he  showed  me  these,  and  among  them  the 
“  Hamlet  Overture,”  which  the  week  before  I  came  had  been 
given  at  the  Amsterdam  Musical  Union,  where  Verhulst  was 
director.  He  mourned  that  Holland,  unlike  Denmark,  had 
no  national  opera.  In  the  following  week  there  was  again  to 
be  given  a  grand  concert,  and  he  promised  that,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  there  had  been  given  at  the  two  last  concerts  pieces  by 
Gade,  namely  the  “  Hamlet  Overture  ”  and  “  In  the  High¬ 
lands,”  I  should  still  hear  some  of  Gade’s  works. 

The  evening  came.  I  was  present  at  the  concert,  when  was 
given  one  of  Gade’s  symphonies,  and  this  was  especially  ap¬ 
plauded,  and  people  looked  at  me  as  much  as  to  say,  —  “  Carry 
our  enthusiasm  to  your  gifted  countryman.”  There  was  an  ele¬ 
gantly  dressed  audience;  but  it  was  unpleasant  to  me  not  to 
see  a  face  of  the  people,  whose  men  in  our  time  are  those  who 
have  given  us  the  most  remarkable  musical  works,  the  people 
who  gave  us  Mendelssohn,  Halevv,  and  Meyerbeer.  I  did 
not  see  a  single  Jew,  and  mentioned  my  surprise,  and  it  was 
still  greater  when  1  heard  —  would  I  had  misunderstood  my 
ears  !  —  that  thev  were  not  admitted  here.  On  several  occa- 
sions  I  received  the  impression  that  there  is  a  strong  division 
here  between  men  in  social,  religious,  and  artistic  relations. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


520 

In  Denmark  one  meets  on  the  stage  the  most  remarkable 
artists,  men  and  women,  moving  in  the  best  circles,  but  not 
here  in  Amsterdam.  I  spoke  of  this,  and  named  a  person  whom 
I  wished  to  meet,  and  was  answered  that  here  it  was  contrary 
to  custom  and  usage  ;  but  it  is  not  good  custom  and  usage. 
In  Denmark,  God  be  praised,  we  do  not  know  such  distinc¬ 
tions.  At  the  King’s  palace  on  reception  evenings,  when  the 
most  eminent  are  invited,  the  famous  actors  are  not  excepted. 

The  Stadt  Theatre  at  Amsterdam,  which  I  visited  frequently, 
gave  nearly  every  evening  a  representation  in  Dutch  ;  but  once 
a  week  there  came  from  the  Royal  Theatre  at  the  Hague  the 
French  opera  and  ballet ;  Meyerbeer’s  “  L’Africaine  ”  was 
given,  and  the  ballet  “  Biche  en  Bois.”  The  opera  had  good 
vigor,  beautiful  voices,  and  was  well  received  ;  the  ballet  was, 
in  respect  to  composition  and  beauty,  far  below  what  the  Dan¬ 
ish  stage  has.  I  saw  a  few  tragedies,  such  as  Schiller’s 
“  Maid  of  Orleans  ”  ;  the  principal  role  was  taken  finely  and 
with  understanding  by  the  first  actress  on  the  stage,  Miss 
Kleine  Gartmann  ;  and  of  still  greater  interest  to  me  was  her 
rendering  of  “  De  Vrouwe  van  Wardenburg.”  The  piece  is  a 
dramatic  poem  in  three  acts.  First  one  sees  her  as  the  strong, 
passionate  woman,  who  herself  leads  the  defense  when  her  town 
is  stormed  ;  later  she  comes  forward  as  an  older  wife  ;  and  finally 
she  is  the  aged  matron  in  a  time  when  all  the  former  relations 
and  opinions  are  entirely  changed,  when  her  daughter’s  son  is 
a  Protestant  and  leads  to  the  altar  the  daughter  of  a  workman. 
She  awaTs  the  bridal  party  in  the  knightly  hall,  where  they 
are  to  receive  her  blessing  ;  her  hand  rests  upon  her  grandson’s 
head,  but  when  she  is  to  lay  it  upon  the  head  of  the  bride, 
born  in  poverty  and  meanness,  her  last  strength  leaves  her 
and  she  drops  dead.  It  is  a  strong  and  absorbing  picture 
from  historic  times.  With  my  friends’  (the  Brandts)  explanation 
t  understood  the  whole  movement,  and  was  especially  taken 
with  Miss  Kleine  Gartmann’s  masterly  acting.  I  heard  later 
that  it  was  a  copy  of  Ristori’s  representation  of  Elizabeth , 
which  I  have  not  seen  ;  but  it  was  certainly  well  done  and  a 
piece  of  genuine  acting  which  was  exhibited  in  “  De  Vrouwe 
van  Wardenburg.”  I  saw  the  piece  a  few  times  ;  it  is  certainly 
1  remarkable  production  upon  the  Holland  stage,  but  if  i* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


521 

were  to  be  given  in  a  strange  country  I  have  my  doubts  about 
it.  Here  it  was  given  well  mounted  and  with  great  refine¬ 
ment.  Between  the  acts,  however,  there  was  something  out 
of  place.  The  orchestra  played  modern  dance  music:  I  was 
for  my  part  zealous  for  Verhulst  and  Petters.  The  gallery  on 
the  occasion  was  filled  with  a  noisy,  restless  people,  who 
shouted  at  the  music  and  whistled  an  accompaniment.  It 
was  a  poor  custom  too,  I  thought,  that  in  the  evening  the 
spectators  drank  their  tea  and  lager  in  the  parquet ;  but  every 
country  has  its  own  customs. 

On  my  former  visit  to  Holland  I  did  not  see  Ten  Kate, 
who  is  perhaps  the  most  eminent  writer  of  the  country,  but 
now  we  were  to  meet  and  become  friends.  His-son-in-law, 
the  merchant  Van  Hengel,  had  a  few  years  before  with  his 
young  wife  been  in  Denmark ;  they  visited  me  there,  and 
brought  a  greeting  from  the  poet.  Now  he  gave  this  for  him¬ 
self  at  the  table  of  his  son-in-law.  There  was  met  here  a  large 
company,  and  most  of  them  understood  Danish.  Ten  Kate 
proposed  mv  health,  and  then  that  of  my  father-land,  Denmark, 
which  should  live  and  blossom  forth  after  all  its  heavy  trials! 
He  spoke  warm  words,  that  were  uttered  with  such  fervor  as 
to  bring  tears  to  my  eyes.  I  proposed  Ten  Kate’s  health 
and  then  Holland’s,  and  finally  read  in  Danish  two  of  my  sto¬ 
ries,  “  The  Most  Charming  Rose  of  the  World  ”  and  “  The 
Butterfly,”  which  had  been  faithfully  and  poetically  rendered, 
and  included  in  my  collected  works. 

He  improvised  a  poem  in  Dutch  to  me,  which  I  answered 
in  the  same  way  in  Danish.  It  was  most  hearty  and  lively, 
and  the  little  snug  room  was  certainly  one  of  gayety.  The 
table  was  decorated  with  a  large  confection  representing  For¬ 
tune.  She  held  the  Danish  flag,  on  which  my  name  was  in¬ 
scribed,  and  Holland’s  flag  with  the  name  Ten  Kate  :  I  have 
still  as  a  souvenir  this  flag.  Ten  Kate  keeps  the  Danish  one 
The  entire  piece  was  quite  covered  over  with  small  storks,  my 
favorite  bird,  and,  I  believe,  the  arms  of  the  Hague. 

Our  Danish  Consul,  Voldsen,  gave  a  similar  dinner,  where  I 
was  the  honored  guest,  and  where  Ten  Kate  gave  me  a  de¬ 
lightful  and  charmingly  expressed  welcome  from  the  children 
of  Holland.  lie  read  also  his  versified  translation  of  my 


522 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


story,  “  The  Angel.”  I  was  obliged  then  to  tell  vivd  voce  itf 
Danish  the  story  of  “  The  Swineherd.” 

One  evening  in  my  home  with  the  Brandt  family,  there  was 
a  large  and  select  company,  when  I  heard  for  the  first  time 
the  old  white-haired  poet  Van  Lennep  recite  with  great  youth¬ 
fulness  and  dramatic  action  a  long  poem  of  Van  Bilderdijk, 
Holland’s  old  and  honored  poet. 

Five  weeks  had  I  spent  in  this  hospitable  and  happy  home, 
and  now  came  the  day  of  departure.  The  brothers  Brandt 
accompanied  me  to  the  station,  but  I  was  not  going  farther 
than  to  Leyden,  where  good  friends  awaited  me.  The  sun 
shone  warmly,  a  thin  sheet  of  snow  still  lay  on  the  earth;  but 
at  the  last  station  the  snow  had  melted,  and  from  this  time  we 
entered  spring,  for  there  was  no  more  snow  or  cold. 

At  the  railway  station  in  Leyden  I  was  met  by  my  friend 
the  poet  Van  Kneppelhout,  and  taken  by  him  to  his  pretty 
house,  where  I  was  to  stay  a  few  days.  His  excellent  wife 
called  us  to  dinner,  and  here  I  found  gathered  a  large  part  of 
the  professors  of  Leyden  University,  with  their  wives.  We 
talked  in  French,  English,  and  Danish.  A  large  printed  story 
by  Van  Kneppelhout,  “  The  Swallows  and  Leeches,”  was  given 
to  the  guests  in  remembrance  of  this  flinner.  I  met  again 
my  old  friend,  the  well  known  Professor  Schlegel,  and  learned 
to  know  the  celebrated  astronomer  Keiser,  visited  his  great 
observatory,  and  would  have  seen  the  sun  spots,  but  the  clouds 
would  not  give  me  a  chance. 

In  an  open  carriage,  one  beautiful  sunny  day,  I  drove  with 
Van  Kneppelhout  and  his  wife  out  to  the  dunes,  where  a  new 
immense  sluice-way  conducts  the  Rhine  to  the  sea ;  and  thus 
the  Rhine  does  not,  as  my  geography  taught  me  when  I  was 
at  school,  “  lose  itself  in  the  sand.”  The  way  led  through  pic¬ 
turesque  Villages  ;  in  the  grounds  were  long  beds  filled  with 
crocuses,  hyacinths,  and  tuiips. 

We  got  out  of  the  carriage  in  front  of  the  sand  dunes  and 
climbed  over  the  wet  sand,  where  the  sun,  as  long  as  we  were 
on  the  lee  side,  burned  with  hot  rays.  The  sea  lay  stretched 
out  before  us  ;  only  a  solitary  ship  was  to  be  seen.  We  went 
to  the  sluices  where  the  Rhine  is  conducted  into  the  North 
Sea  ;  it  is  a  cyclopean  work  built  in  our  day.  The  wind  blev* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


523 


icily  cold,  and  sent  the  flying  sand  into  our  eyes:  it  was  late 
in  the  afternoon  before  we  returned  to  our  home  in  Leyden. 

Meeting  and  separating,  however  happy  one  may  be,  01 
however  much  he  may  enjoy  himself,  is  the  beating  of  the 
pulse  in  travel.  At  the  Hague,  whither  my  route  now  lay,  I 
should  in  a  few  days  only  see  again  my  excellent  host  and 
hostess,  and  meet  with  friends  and  acquaintances.  I  had 
there  our  Danish  Ambassador,  Baron  Bille-Brohe,  whom  I  had 
known  from  his  student  days  ;  and  there  too  was  Fredrika 
Bremer’s  relation,  my  friend  Baron  Wrede,  the  Swedish  Am' 
bassador. 

In  the  carriage  which  took  me  the  short  distance  to  the 
Hague,  I  sat  with  a  young  couple,  who  asked  if  I  was  not  the 
Danish  writer  Andersen.  They  thought  they  knew  me  from 
the  portrait  they  had  seen  in  Amsterdam.  At  the  *hotel  Oude 
Doelen,  where  I  had  stayed  before,  I  received  a  cordial  shak¬ 
ing  of  hands. 

How  delightful  it  is,  a  real  blessing  from  God,  to  be  out  in 
the  world,  to  sit  down  in  a  great  city  all  unknown,  an  entire 
stranger,  and  yet  know  with  certainty  that  only  meet  there 
with  some  misfortune  and  one  suddenly  discovers  that  he 
has  friends,  real  and  true.  I  soon  felt  myself  quite  at  home 
at  the  Hague.  I  saw  here,  at  a  great  dinner  given  by  Van 
Brienen,  all  the  distinguished  world,  ‘learned  to  know  many 
excellent  people,  and  went  away  again  south  by  Rotterdam  to 
Antwerp. 

The  fire  burned  in  the  chimney-place,  the  sun  shone  into 
the  cozy  room.  One  of  my  first  visits  was  to  the  celebrated 
painter  Reiser,  the  director  of  the  Academy.  He  lives  at  the 
Musaeum,  where  I  found  him  in  his  study,  and  was  received  as 
if  I  were  an  old  acquaintance.  He  showed  me  the  colossal 
work  which  was  occupying  him  at  the  time,  and  can  be  finished 
only  after  several  years’  labor,  —  a  painting  which  is  to  covet 
the  walls  in  a  great  hall  of  the  Musaeum,  —  a  representation 
of  all  the  history  of  Flemish  art.  There  are  more  than  a  hun¬ 
dred  portraits  in  full  length,  to  say  nothing  of  lesser  allegorical 
pictures,  as  of  Philosophy,  Poetry,  History,  marked  by  busts 
of  Plato,  Homer,  and  Herodotus. 

The  good  man  himself  took  me  about  the  Musaeum,  which 


524 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


is  rich  in  the  best  paintings  of  Rubens,  Van  Dyck  and  others. 
In  Antwerp  also  had  I  a  hospitable  Danish  home  with  my 
countryman  the  merchant  Good  and  his  wife.  I  saw  with  hirn 
a  large  part  of  the  city,  the  fine  churches  and  monuments. 
What  especially  interested  me  in  this  place  was  an  artistic 
memorial  ;  it  was  not  the  statues  of  Rubens  and  Van  Dyck, 
only  a  tablet  sunk  in  the  wall  at  the  entrance  of  the  cathedral 
—  the  likeness  of  Quentin  Matsys,  who  died  in  1529.  The 
inscription  tells  how  “  in  Sijnen  Tijd  grossmidt  en  daernais 
Tamens  schiider.”  Therein  lies  a  whole  romance.  Out  of 
his  love  for  a  painter’s  beautiful  daughter,  he  threw  aside  his 
anvil  and  hammer  and  took  up  brush  and  pallet.  Love  in¬ 
spired  him  and  carried  him  on,  and  as  a  painter  of  repute  he 
gained  his  young  bride.  One  of  his  greatest  pictures  has  a 
place  in  the  Musaeum,  and  on  the  tablet  stands  in  Latin,  “  Love 
made  the  smith  into  an  Apelles.” 

I  passed  through  Brussels  to  Paris.  Our  Danish  Crown 
Prince  Frederick  was  here,  staying  at  the  Hotel  Bristol,  on  the 
Place  Vendome.  He  spoke  graciously  with  all.  One  heard 
his  praises  everywhere.  He  received  me  with  his  wonfod 
kindness,  and  on  the  first  Sunday  afterward  I  spent  a  delight¬ 
ful  day  in  his  company.  He  invited  me  to  accompany  him 
to  the  races  at  Vincennes.  At  one  o’clock  we  set  out  in  three 
carriages,  every  one  with  four  horses  and  out-riders.  Our 
route  lay  by  the  Boulevards,  and  we  passed  all  the  other 
carriages.  People  stood  and  gazed  with  all  attention  at  the 

Crown  Prince  :  “  Cest  lui !  cest  lui !  ”  thev  cried.  Arrived  at 

* 

the  place,  the  Prince  was  received  by  one  of  the  town  officials, 
who  took  him  to  the  imperial  tribune,  while  the  rest  of  us  fol¬ 
lowed  on.  There  was  a  great  apartment  there  with  fire  burn¬ 
ing  in  the  grate,  soft  chairs  and  sofas  :  shortly  after  a  son  of 
Murat  came  in,  an  elderly  man,  and  his  son  followed  after; 
they  were  the  only  ones  here  of  the  emperor’s  family.  Below 
a  great  crowd  was  singing ;  all  eyes  were  turned  toward  the 
imperial  tribune.  I  sat  there  enjoying  the  scene,  and  full  of 
thought,  too,  of  the  changes  in  my  life.  I  thought  of  my  child¬ 
hood  in  poverty  in  the  little  house  at  Odense,  —  and  now 
here  < 

On  the  way  home  people  stood  by  the  road  to  see  the  D.inisk 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


525 

Crown  Prince.  At  dinner  that  day  with  him,  he  remembered 
that  the  day  after,  the  second  of  April,  was  my  birthday,  arid 
he  drank  the  health  of  my  new  year  that  was  to  begin  on  the 
morrow. 

The  festival  day,  which  my  friends  among  men  and  women 
always  make  so  bright  when  I  am  in  Denmark,  with  Mowers, 
books,  and  pictures,  blossomed  about  me  now  in  my  room  ;  I 
expected  it  would  be  very  different  in  a  strange  land,  but  this 
was  not  the  case,  for  from  home  there  came  in  the  morning 
many  letters  and  telegrams  from  the  Collins  in  Copenhagen. 
All  my  dear  friends  were  thinking  of  me,  and  later  in  the  day 
Denmark’s  Crown  Prince  honored  me  with  a  visit.  I  dined 
with  our  consul,  where  I  found  a  company  of  many  of  my  coun¬ 
trymen  who  drank  my  health. 

When  I  came  home  to  my  hotel  late  in  the  evening,  there 
sat  there  awaiting  me  a  countryman  residing  in  Paris  with  a 
great  bouquet  of  Mowers  from  Madame  Melchior  of  Copen¬ 
hagen.  He  had  received  a  letter  in  the  morning  telling  him 
to  bring  me  such  a  one,  but  the  whole  day  passed  with  his  in¬ 
quiring  for  my  lodgings,  which  he  did  not  find  till  evening.  I 
was  happy  as  a  child,  and  in  the  midst  of  my  pleasure  there 
came,  as  so  often  with  me,  the  thought :  I  have  too  much  hap¬ 
piness !  it  must  some  time  slip  away,  and  heavy  trials  come — ■ 
how  shall  1  then  bear  those  ?  There  is  an  uneasiness  in  being 
so  lifted  up  and  endowed  with  such  wealth  of  fortune. 

I  heard  for  the  first  time  Christina  Nilsson  ;  she  appeared 
in  “  Martha.”  I  was  pleased  with  her  dramatic  gifts  and  en¬ 
raptured  with  her  delightful  voice.  I  paid  her  a  visit,  and  found 
we  were  not  strangers  to  one  another.  When  I  read  in  the 
papers  of  her  first  appearance,  the  fortune  which  rained  down 
on  the  young  Swedish  maiden,  born  so  poor  and  yet  so  rich,  I 
felt  great  interest  for  her,  and  wrote  to  one  of  my  friends  in 
Paris  that  when  he  met  Mile.  Nilsson  he  must  mention  me  to 
her,  and  say  that  when  I  should  go  there  I  should  ask  the 
privilege  of  visiting  her.  She  replied  that  we  were  already  old 
friends ;  that  she  lived  with  a  Norwegian  family  where  I  had 
been  one  day  with  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson,  and  had  heard  me 
read  a  few  of  my  Wonder  Stories,  and  that  she  had  been  intro¬ 
duced  to  me  as  a  young  Swedish  girl  who  was  studying  music 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


526 

and  would  one  day  go  upon  the  stage ;  yes,  I  had  given  her  4 
llttls  cutting  of  paper,  when  I  was  snipping  out  something  for 
some  children  who  were  in  the  room.  At  hearing  that,  I  sud¬ 
denly  recalled  a  morning  visit  in  Paris,  where  I  had  read  and 
had  cut  out  some  paper  things.  I  remembered  talking  there 
with  a  young  lady  who  was  some  time  to  appear  in  opera,  but 
it  had  escaped  my  mind  ;  I  did  not  remember  more  of  her  \ 
but  now  I  stood  before  her  and  was  received  gladly,  as  a 
friend  ;  she  gave  me  her  portrait,  and  wrote  in  French  some 
generous,  kind  words. 

A  letter  of  introduction  took  me  to  Rossini,  whom  I  had  not 
before  this  seen  or  conversed  with.  He  was  so  polite  as  to 
say  that  he  was  well  acquainted  with  my  name,  that  I  needed 
no  letter  of  introduction.  We  talked  about  Danish  music  ;  he 
had  heard  Gade’s  name,  he  said.  Siboni  he  had  known  per¬ 
sonally,  and  his  son,  the  composer,  had  visited  him.  He  asked 
me  next  if  I  would  translate  for  him  a  piece  from  a  newspaper 
which  the  Austrian  Minister  had  sent  him,  in  which  it  was 
mentioned  that  on  the  fifteenth  of  April  there  would  be  given 
at  Vienna  a  concert,  on  the  occasion  of  laying  the  corner-stone 
of  a  monument  to  Mozart,  and  that  there  would  be  brought 
out  two  new  pieces  of  music  by  Rossini,  —  “Christmas,”  and, 
if  I  remember  rightly,  “  The  Battle  of  the  Giants.”  During  our 
conversation  a  new  caller  came,  and  to  him  he  spoke  in  Ital¬ 
ian.  I  heard  him  say  that  I  was  “  una  poeta  Tedesco  !  ”  I  cor¬ 
rected  him  to  “  Danese,”  when  he  looked  at  me  and  continued, 
“  but  Denmark  belongs  to  Germany  !  ”  Then  the  stranger  in¬ 
terrupted  with  the  explanation:  “The  two  lands  have  lately 
been  at  war  with  one  another.”  Rossini  smiled  good-nat¬ 
uredly,  and  asked  me  to  forgive  his  ignorance  of  geography. 
Re  gave  me  his  portrait  card,  wrote  his  name  on  it,  and  asked 
me  to  write  mine  and  my  address,  when  he  would  give  me  an 
invitation  to  one  of  his  musical  evenings. 

The  King  of  Denmark’s  birthday,  the  eighth  of  April,  I  spent 
with  my  countrywoman,  Madame  the  Viscountess  Robereda, 
daughter  of  the  deceased  Danish  Minister  of  the  Marine  Zahrt- 
mann.  I  learned,  in  making  my  way  thither,  how  much  differ- 
e'vre  it  may  make  in  a  great  populous  city  if  one  suddenly  turns 
to  the  right  or  to  the  left.  The  place  to  which  I  was  to  go  lay 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


527 

\.y  the  Porte  Etoile,  on  the  left  side.  I  went  from  Place  de  la 
Concorde  an  hour  before  the  time,  in  order  to  look  at  the  mul¬ 
titude  promenading  the  Champs  d’Elysees  The  crowd  pressed 
on  along  the  broad  road,  passing  on  both  sides  :  one  carriage 
followed  another,  —  elegant  equipages  from  the  drive  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  They  increased  all  the  way  up  to  the  1  orte 
Etoile,  where  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  to  cross  without  being 
run  over,  and  yet  I  must  get  over  to  the  opposite  side.  For  a 
whole  hour  I  hunted  for  a  good  crossing-place.  Here  and  there 
a  man  accomplished  the  act,  but  I  dared  not  venture.  I  could 
see  the  house  where  I  was  to  go  in,  but  I  could  not  see  any  pos¬ 
sibility  of  getting  across  to  it.  The  clock  had  already  passed 
the  appointed  time,  when  my  good  genius  again  came  to  me, 
or  rather  it  was  sent,  —  a  heavily  laden  wagon  drawn  by  six 
horses,  that  was  going  across  at  a  slow  pace,  and  so  made  a 
bulwark,  as  it  were,  against  all  the  dashing  equipages,  and  I 
walked  on  the  lee  of  this  very  safely,  and  so  got  across  to 
where  I  wanted  to  be. 

As  we  sat  at  table  a  great  storm  sprang  up,  and  soon  the 
lightning  flashed  so  that  all  the  lights  in  the  room  lost  their 
power.  It  was  a  magnificent  sight  to  look  out  over  Paris, 
which  now  lay  shrouded  in  darkness,  and  then  suddenly 
blazed  as  with  a  dart  of  sunlight.  The  rain  did  not  lessen. 
It  was  impossible  to  get  a  carriage,  and  the  storm  promised 
to  hold  Hr  into  the  night.  All  the  omnibuses  were  full,  all 
the  carriages  taken  up,  —  so  said  the  servants  and  porter. 
A  guest  chamber  was  offered  me,  but  I  was  quite  certain 
I  myself  could  find  a  carriage,  so  I  ran  across  the  place  and 
into  the  broad  drive-way,  but  no  carriage  was  to  be  found,  and 
on  all  the  omnibuses  was  the  word  complct.  The  rain  poured 
down,  and  it  was  half  after  one  before  I  reached  my  hotel  ; 
there  was  not  a  dry  thread  upon  me.  I  was  as  wet  as  if  I  had 
gone  through  the  Seine. 

My  able  fellow-countryman,  the  artist  Lorenz  Frolich,  who 
as  an  artist  has  also  in  France  a  well  known  and  honored 
name,  had  just  begun  upon  some  illustrations  for  a  number  of 
my  later  stories  which  had  lacked  pictures.  He  worked  with 
great  pleasure  011  the  book.  He  had  a  happy  home,  a  noble 
wife,  and  a  charming  little  girl,  the  original  of  “  Baby,”  in  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


528 

picture-book,1  which  all  France  knows  well.  At  his  table  I 
met  the  writer  Sauvage,  who  said  that  he  would  give  dramatic 
treatment  to  the  idea  contained  in  the  Wonder  Story,  “The 
Galoshes  of  Fortune,”  and  show  the  falsity  of  the  position 
taken  by  so  many,  that  the  old  times  were  better  than  the 
new.  He  showed  me  a  letter  he  had  received  from  Jules  San- 
deau,  in  which  were  the  words,  “You  are  fortunate  in  dining 
with  Andersen  ;  he  is  a  poet  full  of  grace,  and  a  true  Prosaist  l 
He  is  like  Haydn  in  music.  I  am  delighted  with  what  I  know 
of  his,  and,  to  name  a  single  one,  with  ‘The  Little  Sea-maid.’  ” 

Before  I  left  Paris,  I  was  permitted  a  great  pleasure,  —  an 
honor  I  received  from  Vienna,  sent  by  the  Emperor  Maxi¬ 
milian  in  Mexico,  —  the  commander’s  order  of  Notre  Dame 
de  Gaudeloupe ;  the  letter  which  accompanied  it  said  that  the 
order  was  bestowed  upon  me  in  recognition  of  my  poetic  writ¬ 
ings.  The  noble,  richly  gifted,  and  soon  so  ill-fated  Emperor 
had  remembered  me  and  wished  to  give  me  pleasure.  I  re¬ 
membered  an  evening  many  years  ago,  when  in  the  Emperor’s 
palace  at  Vienna  with  his  mother,  the  Archduchess  Sophia,  I 
read  some  of  my  stories  ;  two  young  men  came  in  who  were 
very  friendly  and  talked  to  me  :  it  was  Prince  Maximilian  and 
his  brother,  now7  the  Emperor  of  Austria. 

The  thirteenth  of  April  I  left  Paris,  and  in  the  afternoon 
reached  Tours.  The  whole  journey  long  the  spring  greeted 
me  with  blossoming  fruit-trees ;  and  when  the  day  after  1  came 
to  Bordeaux,  there  was  a  luxuriant  display  in  the  Botanical 
Garden.  All  the  trees,  southern  and  northern,  were  in  their 
glory,  the  blossoms  gave  forth  their  fragrance,  the  gold-fish 
sported  by  hundreds  in  the  canal.  I  w^as  again  in  my  accus¬ 
tomed  Hotel  Richelieu,  and  saw  once  more  my  countrymen 
and  my  French  friends,  among  whom  I  especially  received 
great  attention  and  kindness  from  the  litterateur  George  Amee, 
and  the  musician  Ernst  Redan.  I  spent  a  few  lively  evenings 
with  them.  Redan  played  from  Schumann  ;  Amee  read  in 
French  several  of  my  stories  and  the  entire  “  Picture-book 
without  Pictures”;  a  young  Frenchman  who  listened  was  so 
overcome  that  tears  flowed  down  his  cheeks,  and,  to  my  sur 
prise,  seized  my  hand  and  kissed  it. 

1  In  its  English  form  the  book  is  Rosy  on  her  Travels, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


529 


Through  George  Araee  I  received  an  invitation  from  the 
conmander,  General  Dumas,  who  had  formerly  served  in  Af¬ 
rica,  and  has  in  the  “  Revue  de  deux  Mondes  ”  written  in  an 
interesting  way  of  Algiers  and  the  Arabs.  He  spoke  warmly 
and  appreciatingly  of  the  Danish  soldiers’  bravery,  which  did 
my  heart  good,  as  when  one  hears  his  own  kin  praised.  He 
invited  me  to  share  his  box  at  the  opera,  and  I  was  there  sev¬ 
eral  times  and  enjoyed  his  kindness. 

On  the  twenty-fifth  of  every  month  a  steamer  leaves  Bor¬ 
deaux  for  Lisbon.  I  had  already  announced  my  coming  to 
O’Neill  by  the  vessel  which  would  reach  there  the  twenty- 
eighth  of  April.  The  weather  meanwhile  was  very  stormy.  I 
knew  the  Spanish  sea  offered  no  pleasure  excursion,  but  it 
was  not  much  better  to  go  through  uneasy  Spain,  where  the 
railway  between  Madrid  and  the  border  of  Portugal  was  not 
yet  completed.  Then  I  heard  that  Ristori  was  at  Bordeaux, 
and  would  appear  one  of  the  first  evenings  as  Medea ,  and 
also  as  Marie  Stuart.  I  have  previously  mentioned  how  she 
enraptured  me  when  I  saw  her  in  London  as  Lady  Macbeth. 
I  must  see  her  again,  give  a  few  days  to  a  stay  in  Bordeaux, 
give  up  the  sea  voyage,  and  go  through  Spain  to  Portugal. 

Ristori’s  Medea  was  magnificent,  never  to  be  forgotten ; 
equally  so  her  Lady  Macbeth. 

My  departure  was  arranged,  and  the  journal  “  La  Gironde,” 
which  afterward  came  to  hand,  spoke  very  courteously  of  me 
and  my  stay  in  Bordeaux.  When  I  left  I  received  from  the 
learned  Frenchman  Michel,  who  had  known  my  celebrated 
countrymen  Brondsted  and  Fiin  Magnussen,  his  rendering  in 
French  of  the  Basque  popular  tales,  which  I  thus  could  read 
on  my  journey  through  the  Basque  country.  Tunnel  followed 
tunnel  ;  it  was  wild  and  lonely,  with  single  places  here  and 
there,  and  small  black  towns.  We  came  by  Burgos  to  Mad¬ 
rid.  During  my  former  visit  the  city  did  not  attract  me,  and 
Dtill  less  did  it  this  time ;  I  felt  myself  alone  and  unhappy 
The  government  forces  had  got  the  better  of  the  revolutionary 
movement,  but  how  easily  and  how  soon  this  might  break  out! 
and  so  it  did  but  a  few  weeks  after  I  had  reached  Lisbon. 
The  telegrams  announced  bloody  fighting  in  the  streets  and 
lanes.  I  was  exceedingly  desirous  to  get  away  but  the  railway 

34 


530 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


to  the  Portuguese  boundary  was  not  yet  open,  and  to  engage  a 
place  in  the  mail  wagon  I  must  wait  five  days. 

Thursday  evening,  the  third  of  May,  I  finally  took  my  leave. 
A  young  lawyer  from  Lisbon  was  my  only  travelling  com* 
panion  :  he  spoke  French  a  little,  and  was  very  kind  and  con¬ 
siderate.  It  was  a  moonlit  night.  We  went  over  the  cam- 
pagna,  —  past  single,  solitary  ruins.  A  never-to-be  forgotten 
romantic  character  belonged  to  it  all.  In  the  early  morning 
we  passed  the  river  Tagus,  and  later  in  the  day  pretty  wooded 
tracts  ;  it  was  nearly  evening  before  we  began  to  cross  the 
mountains,  and  we  dined  at  Truxillo,  Pizarro’s  birthplace.  At 
the  post-houses  one  could  not  be  sure  of  getting  anything  but 
chocolate,  and  my  companion  and  I  therefore _  carried  wine 
and  provisions  with  us,  so  that  we  lacked  nothing  but  rest  at 
night ;  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of,  so  broken  up  was  the 
way.  The  carriage  stuck  and  swung  about,  we  went  over 
great  stones  and  into  deep  ruts,  and  at  last  at  Merida  we 
came  to  the  railway,  reaching  it  early  in  the  morning  before 
the  sun  was  up. 

My  travelling  companion  took  me  through  a  number  of 
streets  and  lanes  to  see  some  ruins  which  had  come  down  from 
the  time  of  the  Romans.  I  was  so  fagged  out,  so  very  indif¬ 
ferent  to  seeing  any  shows,  that  I  went  along  reluctantly  with 
stumbling  steps,  and  looked  with  sleepy  eyes  on  the  old  stones  ; 
it  was  much  more  delightful  to  hear  the  locomotive’s  whistle 
and  see  the  steam  curling  up.  We  had  only  a  short  distance 
to  go,  and  we  were  in  the  large  Spanish  border  town  Badajos. 
Here,  in  a  good  hotel  and  with  an  irreproachable  breakfast.  I 
got  my  vigor  back,  and  after  a  few  hours’  rest  we  were  able  to 
continue  the  journey,  and  so  we  came  to  Lisbon  early  in  the 
morning. 

To  go  from  Spain  into  Portugal  is  like  flying  from  the  Mid¬ 
dle  Ages  into  the  present  era.  All  about  were  whitewashed, 
friendly  looking  houses,  hedged  about  by  trees  :  and  at  the 
larger  stations  refreshments  could  be  had,  while  in  the  night 
we  found  a  chance  to  rest  in  the  roomy  railway  carriage. 

We  were  a  day  and  night  reaching  Lisbon.  My  attentive 
travelling  companion  procured  a  carriage  for  me,  and  bade 
the  coachman  take  me  to  the  Hotel  Durand,  where  I  would 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


53* 

be  close  by  Tolades  O’Neill’s  offices.  So  far  all  was  very  well ; 
but  not  when  I  came  to  the  hotel,  for  all  the  rooms  were 
taken,  and  I  heard  that  O’Neill’s  establishment  and  offices 
were  not  his  lodging  place  ;  that  he  had  his  home  half  a  mile 
(Danish)  outside  of  Lisbon,  at  his  country-seat  “  Pinieros.” 
It  was  Sunday,  and  no  one  came  to  town  on  that  day.  Tired 
as  I  was,  I  must  take  a  carriage  and  drive  out  there.  It  was 
on  one  of  the  heights  by  the  Alcantara  Valley,  hard  by  the 
great  aqueduct,  “Arcos  dos  Aquas  Livres.” 

I  was  most  cordially  welcomed  by  the  friend  of  my  youth, 
and  by  his  wife  and  sons.  They  had  so  confidently  expected 
me  by  the  French  steamship  that  they  had  gone  to  meet  it. 
The  Danish  ships  that  lay  in  the  Tagus  had  raised  the  Danne- 
brog  as  a  greeting  to  me. 

The  garden  was  still  in  full  flower,  with  roses  and  gerani* 
urns ;  climbing  plants  and  passion-flowers  hung  over  the 
walls  and  hedges.  The  elder-tree’s  white  blossoms  against 
the  red  pomegranate’s  gave  me  the  Danish  colors  ;  in  the 
grain  appeared  the  red  poppy  and  the  blue  chicory,  so  that  I 
could  fancy  I  saw  a  piece  of  field  from  home,  but  here  it  was 
hedged  about  by  high  cactus  and  solemn  cypresses.  The 
wind  whistled  nearly  every  night  as  at  home  in  the  autumn 
time.  “  It  is  the  coast  wind  that  blows  and  makes  Portugal 
blessed  and  healthy,”  they  said. 

I  had  read  of  Lisbon’s  narrow,  crooked  streets,  where  wild 
dogs  feasted  on  the  carcasses  left  to  rot.  I  saw  a  light,  hand¬ 
some  .town  with  broad  streets,  and  houses  whose  walls  were 
often  decorated  with  shining  slabs  of  porcelain. 

One  of  the  most  noted  of  the  living  authors  in  Portugal  i? 
Antonio  Feliciano  de  Castilho ;  he  has  married  a  Danish 
lady,  Miss  Vidal.  I  had  thus  a  fellow-countrywoman  and  a 
great  writer  to  visit.  George  O’Neill  took  me  to  them. 

Castilho  was  born  at  the  beginning  of  this  century.  In 
his  sixth  year  he  caught  the  small-pox  and  lost  his  sight  by 
it ;  but  he  was  seized  with  a  fervent  desire  to  study  ;  his  rich 
endowment  helped  him,  and  he  devoted  himself  especially  to 
grammar,  history,  philosophy,  and  Greek.  When  not  quite 
fourteen  he  wrote  Latin  verse  which  won  high  praise,  and 
shortly  after  followed  writings  in  his  mother  tongue  ;  but  he 


532 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


devoted  himself  most  to  the  study  of  botany.  With  his  brother, 
who  was  eyes  for  him,  he  wandered  in  the  charming  country 
about  Coimbra  and  took  in  all  the  beauty  of  nature,  so  that 
he  sang  of  it  in  his  poem  “  Spring.”  At  Coimbra  too  he 
wrote  the  poem  “Echo  e  Narcisso,”  which  in  a  few  years  ran 
through  several  editions.  He  translated  “  Ovid,”  and  showed 
great  poetic  power.  A  young  lady,  Maria  Isabel  de  Buena 
Coimbra,  was  educated  at  a  Benedictine  nunnery  near  Oporto, 
where  she  remained  some  time  after  her  education  was  com¬ 
pleted.  She  was  acquainted  with  classic  and  modern  authors  ; 
she  read  the  poem  “  Echo  e  Narcisso,”  and  wrote,  without  giv¬ 
ing  her  name  to  the  author,  “  Should  Echo  be  found,  would 
you  then  resemble  Narcissus  ?  ” 

With  this  began  a  correspondence  between  Castilho  and 
the  unknown  writer.  After  a  time  he  asked  if  he  might  ven¬ 
ture  to  inquire  her  name.  She  gave  it ;  the  correspondence 
continued,  and  in  the  year  1834  they  were  betrothed  and  mar¬ 
ried.  Three  years  afterward  she  died.  The  poem  which  he 
wrote  to  her  memory,  is  placed  by  his  countrymen  beside  the 
best  things  in  their  literature.  He  afterward  married  Char¬ 
lotte  Vidal,  whose  father  was  consul  at  Helsingor.  By  her 
aid  Castilho  translated  into  Portuguese  several  Danish  poems, 
such  as  some  from  Baggesen,  Oehlenschlager,  and  Boye. 

I  was  received  into  his  house  as  an  old  acquaintance  and 
friend.  The  good  poet  talked  with  great  vivacity,  he  was  full 
of  youth  and  freshness.  He  was  at  work  now  upon  a  trans¬ 
lation  of  “Virgil.”  His  son,  also  a  writer,  aided  his  blind 
father.  The  daughter  has  fine  eyes,  that  shine  with  the  light 
of  the  south.  I  improvised  a  poem  on  them  ;  stars  by  day 
they  were,  brighter  than  the  stars  of  night.  Castilho  and  his 
family  soon  gave  me  the  pleasure  of  a  return  visit  at  Pinieros. 
I  received  from  him  one  or  two  letters,  dictated  in  French, 
and  signed  by  his  own  hand.  My  letters  to  him  I  wrote  in 
Danish  ;  he  says,  therefore,  in  one  of  his,  —  “  We  talk  with  one 
another  like  Pyramus  and  Thisbe —  my  wife  the  wall.”  With 
Madame  Castilho’s  help,  Danish  letters  and  literature  were 
imparted  to  the  blind  poet. 

I  had  been  several  weeks  at  Pinieros  and  felt  myself  at 
home  with  these  dear  Portuguese  friends.  Madame  O’Neill 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


533 


gave  interesting  reminiscences  of  her  childhood,  dating  from 
Don  Miguel’s  time ;  the  oldest  of  her  sons,  George,  played 
the  piano  well,  read  much,  and  took  great  interest  in  nature  ; 
the  younger,  Arthur,  was  a  bright,  handsome  boy,  quick  at 
vaulting  on  his  horse  and  riding  away,  and  both  of  them  were 
very  attentive  to  me.  The  father,  my  friend  George  O’Neill, 
spent  the  whole  day  at  his  counting-room  ;  he  was  at  the  head 
of  the  house  Tolades  O’Neill,  and  Consul  for  Denmark  and 
other  greater  countries.  In  the  evening  we  saw  him  at  home, 
always  happy  and  lively  ;  we  talked  Danish  together,  of  our 
old  times  in  Denmark ;  then  the  guitar  was  taken  down,  or 
his  son  George  took  his  place  at  the  harpsichord,  when  the 
brothers  sang  with  fine  rich  voices  out  of  “  Martha  ”  and 
“  Rigoletto.”  I  put  confidence  in  O’Neill ;  it  seemed  to  us  as 
if  we  were  fellow-countrymen  and  brothers. 

We  had  been  here  already  a  month  together  ;  I  wanted  now 
to  see  a  still  more  fertile  and  more  beautiful  portion  of  Por¬ 
tugal.  Carlos  O’Neill  had  invited  me  to  his  pretty  villa,  Bone- 
gos,  near  Setubal.  His  brother  George  with  his  wife  and  sons 
accompanied  me.  We  went  by  steamer  across  the  broad  Ta¬ 
gus,  and  then  took  the  railway  straight  to  Setubal,  which  lies 
right  on  the  ocean  among  orange  groves  and  hills. 

Carlos  O’Neill’s  carriage  took  us  from  the  railway  station  to 
his  villa.  It  was  the  old  highway  from  Lisbon  to  the  southern 
part  of  the  country  which  we  were  passing  over,  and  it  wound 
quite  like  a  road  in  Spain  ;  soon  it  was  so  small  that  only  a 
single  carriage  could  go,  then  it  was  wide  enough  for  four 
carriages  ;  it  rose  on  rocky  ground  and  then  sank  for  a  long 
distance  in  deep  sand,  set  with  flowering  aloes.  Before  us 
rose  the  fortress  of  Palmella,  like  a  great  ruin  ;  nearer,  under 
shady  trees,  was  the  desolate,  lonely  monastery  Brancana,  and 
hard  by  was  O’Neill’s  villa.  Here  I  stepped  into  a  well  or¬ 
dered,  happy  home.  Every  view  from  my  balcony  window 
looked  out  on  palm-trees  overshadowing  fountains  ;  the 
ocean  lay  before  the  terrace,  with  its  rich  diversity  of  color  ; 
the  pepper-trees  stood  like  weeping  willows  above  the  reser¬ 
voirs  of  water,  where  gold-fish  swam  about  among  the  water 
lilies  •  further  on  was  an  orange  grove,  and  beyond  that,  still 
further,  was  the  vineyard. 


534 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


I  looked  out  over  the  town  of  Setubal  and  the  bay  with 
its  ships,  and  the  white  sand  hills  were  set  against  the  blue 
ocean.  After  every  warm  day,  there  was  a  breeze  at  evening 
that  brought  rest  and  coolness.  Darkness  fell,  but  the  stars 
came  forth  and  shone  wondrous  clear,  and  then  the  countless 
fire-flies  darted  about  over  trees  and  bushes. 

They  were  affectionate,  home-loving  people  with  whom  I 
lived,  and  they  showed  me  the  greatest  attention  and  consid¬ 
eration.  The  son,  young  Carlos,  a  fine  fellow  with  dark  blue 
eyes  and  coal-black  hair,  was  my  faithful  guide  and  escort  on 
all  my  expeditions  to  the  hills,  he  on  his  horse,  I  on  an  ass. 
He  had  had  one  sister ;  it  was  only  a  few  months  since  that 
God  had  called  her  to  Himself ;  she  was  fourteen  years  old, 
the  joy  of  the  household.  The  loss  of  her  had  clouded  the 
sunshine  in  what  had  been  her  father’s  merry  home. 

We  lived  very  quietly,  but  for  me,  there  was  a  rich  variety. 
Young  Carlos  and  I  rode  through  lemon  groves,  where  pome¬ 
granates  and  magnolias  were  brilliant  with  flowers  ;  we  visited 
a  few  deserted  monasteries,  and  took  a  view  from  Palmella 
out  over  the  great  cork  groves  to  the  Tagus,  Lisbon,  and  the 
Cintra  mountains.  We  took  a  sail  out  over  the  open  sea  to  the 
grotto  at  Mount  Arabida,  and  visited  the  town  of  Troja,  now 
buried  under  sand  hills.  The  Phoenicians  founded  it ;  the 
Romans  afterward  dwelt  there,  and  made  salt  in  the  same  way 
as  it  still  is  obtained  :  the  great  remains  show  that.  The  sand 
hills  were  covered  with  a  growth  of  bushes,  thistles,  and 
flowers  that  with  us  flourish  in  greenhouses.  Where  we 
stopped  on  the  shore  great  heaps  of  stones  were  piled  up,  bal¬ 
last  for  ships,  which  here  in  the  bay  had  exchanged  their  lad¬ 
ing  for  salt  ;  stones  from  Denmark,  Sweden,  Russia,  China : 
quite  a  wonder  story  might  be  written  about  that.  We  walked 
about  in  this  desolate  place,  and  climbed  the  sand  hills  and 
looked  out  on  the  ocean.  I  looked  over  the  water  —  the 
nearest  coast  was  America.  I  thought  of  my  friends  there, 
Marcus  Spring  and  his  good  wife  ;  of  Longfellow,  the  grea*. 
poet  of  “Hiawatha”  and  “Evangeline;”  I  thought  of  wha. 
America  had  given  us  in  Washington  Irving  and  Cooper,  — < 
wine  of  the  soul  from  yonder  hemisphere  :  I  never  shall  go 
there,  I  have  such  terror  of  the  water  ;  but  my  thoughts  wen» 
thither  from  the  dunes  at  Troja,  the  Portuguese  Pompeii. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


535 

I  saw  a  buil-fight  at  Setubal,  innocent  and  bloodless  by  the 
side  of  Spanish  ones.  I  saw  too  the  popular  St.  Anthony’s 
feast,  with  torches  in  the  streets,  singing  and  processions.  I 
spent  a  delightful  month,  full  of  lively  occupation  in  this 
beautiful  Setubal.  The  visit  here  and  at  Pinieros  had  already 
occupied  half  the  time  I  had  devoted  to  my  stay  in  Por¬ 
tugal,  and  I  desired  also  before  I  left  to  visit  Coimbra  and 
Cintra.  I  must  leave  or  I  should  be  spending  the  whole 
winter. 

The  journey  by  diligence  through  the  burning-hot,  unquiet 
Spain  was  not  advisable ;  it  was  more  sensible  to  go  by 
steamer  from  Lisbon  to  Bordeaux,  but  I  dared  not  set  out 
till  the  equinoctial  storms  were  over.  How  would  the  journey 
from  France  be  arranged  ?  What  dimensions  would  the  war  in 
Germany  take  ?  Would  France  enter  it  ?  I  saw  that  the  jour¬ 
ney  home  would  be  full  of  uneasiness,  and  I  came  near  spend¬ 
ing  the  winter  in  Portugal,  but  to  travel  far  away  from  friends 
and  live  in  a  hotel  were  not  at  all  pleasant  to  think  of,  while 
to  stay  as  a  guest  several  months  —  I  thought  of  the  old 
proverb :  “  The  welcome  guest  becomes  tiresome  when  he  sits 
too  long  in  the  strange  house.”  I  came  therefore  to  the  con¬ 
clusion  to  try  the  sea  voyage,  and  see  what  a  war-vexed  time 
would  bring  to  pass.  In  the  middle  of  August  a  steamer 
came  from  Rio  Janeiro  to  Lisbon,  and  went  immediately  on  to 
Bordeaux  ;  so  I  determined  to  take  that  after  a  visit  to  Coim¬ 
bra,  and  a  stay  of  a  week  or  two  in  charming  Cintra. 

It  was  hard  to  leave  pleasant  Bonegos,  and  the  amiable 
people  there.  Carlos  O'Neill,  father  and  son,  accompanied  me 
to  Lisbon,  and  from  here,  with  the  brothers  George  and  Josd 
O’Neill,  I  made  a  journey  first  to  Aveiro,  and  thence  to  the 
romantically  placed  Coimbra,  the  university  town  of  Portugal. 
It  lies  up  on  the  side  of  a  mountain,  one  street  above  another, 
several  of  the  houses  rising  three  or  four  stories  over  those 
below.  The  streets  are  narrow  and  crooked  ;  steep  stone 
steps  lead  between  separate  buildings  from  one  street  up  into 
the  next.  Here  are  a  great  many  of  the  shops  and  book¬ 
stalls.  Everywhere  I  saw  students,  all  dressed  in  a  kind  of 
mediaeval  costume,  —  a  long  black  gown,  a  short  cape,  and  a 
Polish  cap  hanging  down.  I  saw  a  company  of  the  lively 


| 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


536 

youths  setting  out  with  guitar  or  gun  over  the  shoulder,  bound 
for  the  woods  and  the  mountains. 

The  university,  an  extensive  building,  occupies  the  highest 
point  of  the  town  :  from  it  one  looks  out  over  groves  of 
oranges,  cypresses,  and  cork-trees.  Far  down  below,  a  great 
bridge  of  masonry  led  over  the  Mandego  River  to  the  nun¬ 
nery  of  Santa  Clara  and  La  Quinta  dos  lagrimas  ;  the  castle 
lies  half  in  ruins  where  the  beautiful,  unfortunate  Inez  de 
Castro  and  her  innocent  child  were  murdered.  The  fountain 
still  bubbles  in  the  garden  where  Inez  and  her  husband,  Don 
Pedro,  so  often  sat  under  the  tall  cypresses  that  still  cast  their 
shade.  On  a  marble  tablet  is  written  the  verse  about  Inez 
which  Camoens  wrote  in  his  “  Lusiad.” 

During  my  visit  at  Coimbra,  there  was  a  festival  at  the  uni¬ 
versity  ;  a  young  man  got  his  “  Doctor’s  hat.”  The  Professor 
of  the  History  of  Literature  had  heard  that  I  was  in  Coimbra, 
and  he  honored  me  with  a  visit.  He  took  me  to  the  festiva., 
and  I  saw  almost  all  the  buildings,  —  the  beautiful  chapel, 
the  great  hall,  and  the  library. 

From  Coimbra  I  returned  to  Lisbon,  in  order  to  go  to  Cin- 
tra,  the  prettiest,  most  enthusiastically  praised  part  of  Portugal. 
“  The  new  paradise,”  Byron  called  it.  “  Spring  has  her  throne 
here,”  sings  the  Portuguese  Garret. 

The  road  thither  from  Lisbon  leads  over  a  poor  country, 
but  suddenly  rises  before  one  a  part  of  Armidas,  —  the 
enchanted  garden  of  Cintra,  —  with  its  umbrageous,  mighty 
trees,  its  rushing  waters,  its  romantic  country  fields.  One  say? 
rightly,  that  every  nation  finds  here  a  bit  of  its  own  country, 
I  found  Danish  woods,  clover,  and  forget-me-nots.  I  believe 
that  I  found  also  many  familiar  reminders  of  other  countries,  — 
England  with  its  green  sward ;  the  Brocken’s  wild  rocks  hurled 
about ;  now  I  saw  Setubal’s  flowers  with  their  rich  variety 
of  color  ;  and  again,  far  up  in  the  North,  Lecksand’s  birch 
groves.  From  the  road  one  can  look  out  over  the  little  town, 
with  the  old  castle,  where  the  reioriin£  Kins:  Louis  lives.  One 
sees  the  champaigns,  and  the  distant  cloister  Mafifra.  A  beau¬ 
tiful  and  picturesque  place  high  up  on  the  hill,  is  the  summei 
residence  of  King  Fernando,  once  a  monastery.  The  road 
began  among  cactus,  chestnuts,  and  bananas,  ends  among  birch 


THE  STORY  Ob  MY  LIFE. 


537 

and  pine,  growing  among  wild  rocks  that  lie  tossed  about 
You  can  look  far  out  to  the  mountains  beyond  the  Tagus,  and 
away  over  the  great  ocean. 

My  friend  Jose  O’Neill  had  his  country-seat  in  the  para¬ 
disaical  Cintra  ;  I  was  his  welcome  guest,  and  I  had  another 
friend  here  in  the  English  Consul,  Lytton,  son  of  Bulwer  Lyt- 
ton.  I  had  in  Copenhagen  made  the  acquaintance  of  young 
Lytton,  who  is  himself  a  graceful  writer.  He  came  to  see  me 
in  the  most  cordial  manner,  and  made  my  stay  here  very 
pleasant.  With  him  and  his  lovely  wife  I  saw  much  of  the 
charming  country  about  Cintra. 

I  had  also  the  pleasure  of  meeting  with  my  noble  country¬ 
woman,  Madame  the  Vicountess  Roberda  nee  Zahrtmann, 
whom  I  had  visited  in  Paris  on  my  way  hither.  She  invited 
me  to  the  house  of  Count  Armeida,  and  I  found  myself  in  a 
circle  of  friendly  and  good  people,  from  whom  it  was  hard  for 
me  to  tear  myself  away,  as  well  as  from  my  affectionate  friend 
Jose  ;  but  time  was  passing  on,  the  steamer  for  Bordeaux  would 
in  a  few  days  touch  at  Lisbon,  and  thither  must  I  go.  Stormy 
weather  delayed  the  arrival  of  the  vessel,  and  I  was  forced  to 
wait  a  few  days,  with  no  pleasurable  anticipations  of  my  sea 
journey. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  Tuesday,  the  fourteenth  of  August, 
we  were  informed  that  the  steamer  Navarro  had  arrived,  and 
was  taking  goods  and  passengers  on  board.  It  was  an  exceed¬ 
ingly  large,  vessel,  —  the  largest  I  had  ever  been  on,  —  a  great 
floating  hotel.  George  O’Neill  introduced  me  to  the  captain 
and  a  few  of  the  officers,  bespeaking  the  best  attention  for  me, 
laughed,  and  jested,  and  pressed  my  hand  as  we  left ;  I  was 
sorrowful  indeed  “  but  we  should  see  each  other  often  !  ” 

The  signal  was  given,  the  anchor  was  raised,  the  steam 
whistled,  and  soon  we  were  out  on  the  Atlantic  Ocean ;  the 
ship  rose  and  fell,  the  waves  rolled  greater  and  greatei.  The 
storm  had  ceased  its  movements,  but  not  the  sea.  I  took  my 
place  at  the  table,  but  at  the  same  moment  must  needs  rise 
quickly  and  get  out  into  the  fresh  air,  where  I  sat  suffering 
from  the  motion  of  the  ship,  which  I  had  every  reason  to  ex¬ 
pect  would  be  worse  in  the  Spanish  sea 

It  was  scon  evening,  the  stars  came  out,  the  air  was  very 


THE  STCRY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


538 

cold.  I  dared  not  venture  into  my  state-room,  but  entered 
the  dining  saloon,  where  toward  midnight  I  was  the  only  one 
remaining.  The  lights  were  put  out ;  I  knew  the  rolling  of  the 
sea,  the  movement  of  the  machinery,  the  sounding  of  the  sig¬ 
nal  bell,  and  the  answer  that  came.  I  thought  upon  the  might 
of  the  sea,  the  might  of  fire,  and  I  had  quite  too  vivid  recollec¬ 
tions  of  the  friend  of  my  youth,  Jette  Wulff’s  fearful  death 
on  her  voyage  to  America.  And  as  I  lay  there  a  sea  struck 
is  midship  ;  it  was  as  if  we  suddenly  were  stopped,  as  if  the 
oteam  held  its  breath.  It  was  only  a  moment,  and  again  the 
engine  gave  its  wonted  sound  and  trembling  motion  ;  but  in¬ 
voluntarily  there  was  pictured  in  my  thoughts,  and  that  more 
and  more  forcibly,  a  shipwreck,  with  the  water  upheaving,  and 
we  sinking  and  sinking.  How  long  would  consciousness  and 
the  death  agony  last  ?  I  had  all  the  torment  of  it,  as  this  fan¬ 
tasy  took  possession  of  me.  I  could  no  longer  endure  it,  and 
rushed  up  upon  deck,  pushed  the  sail  aside  at  the  gunwale,  and 
looked  out  upon  what  splendor  !  what  majesty  !  —  the  rolling 
sea  shone  as  if  on  fire  ;  the  great  waves  gleamed  with  phos¬ 
phorus  ;  it  was  as  if  we  went  gliding  over  a  sea  of  fire.  I  was 
so  overwhelmed  by  this  grandeur  that  in  a  moment  my  fear 
of  death  had  vanished.  The  peril  was  not  greater  nor  less 
than  it  had  been  all  along,  but  now  I  did  not  think  of  it.  Fancy 
had  taken  another  direction.  “  Is  it  really  so  important,”  I 
asked  myself,  “  that  I  should  live  any  longer  ?  Were  Death  to 
come  to-night,  in  what  majesty  and  glory  he  would  come.”  I 
stood  for  a  long  time  in  the  starry  night,  and  looked  out  on 
the  grand,  rolling  world’s  sea,  and  when  I  again  sought  the 
saloon  for  rest,  my  soul  was  happy  and  refreshed  by  resigna¬ 
tion  to  God’s  will. 

I  slept,  and  when  the  next  morning  I  went  up  on  deck  I 
felt  no  more  sea-sickness,  and  began  to  take  pleasure  in  look¬ 
ing  out  on  the  swelling  water.  Toward  evening  this  seemed 
to  grow  less ;  and  next  morning,  when  we  were  in  the  midst 
of  the  Spanish  sea,  which  I  had  especially  dreaded,  the  wind 
died  down  ;  the  water  lay  like  a  piece  of  silk  stretched  out ;  i 
was  as  smooth  as  if  we  were  on  a  lake.  Surely  I  was  For¬ 
tune’s  child :  such  a  voyage  I  had  not  expected  nor  dared  to 
*nink  of. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


539 

The  next  morning,  the  fourth  day  I  had  spent  on  board,  we 
sighted  the  light-house  on  the  rocky  heights  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Gironde.  We  had  heard  at  Lisbon  that  the  cholera  was 
in  Bordeaux,  though  this  was  said  doubtfully.  The  pilot  who 
came  aboard  assured  us  that  the  condition  of  health  there 
was  excellent :  it  was  the  first  greeting  we  received,  and  was  a 
very  joyful  one  to  us. 

The  passage  up  the  river  took  several  hours  ;  it  was  seven 
o'clock  in  the  evening  before  we  reached  Bordeaux.  The  por¬ 
ter  from  the  hotel  where  I  had  stopped  before  knew  me ;  the 
coach  was  in  waiting,  and  I  was  soon  to  see  dear  friends.  The 
excellent,  quick  minded  Amee  I  met  afterward  with  Redan, 
Amiat,  and  several  gifted  French  friends.  Music,  reading,  and 
animated  conversation,  made  the  time  pass  quickly. 

With  one  of  my  countrymen,  I  went  one  day  through  one  of 
the  smaller  streets,  and  saw  there  at  a  book-stall  the  French 
translation  of  “  The  Picture-book  without  Pictures.”  I  asked 
the  price.  “  One  franc,”  answered  the  man.  “  That  is  what  a 
new  copy  costs,”  said  I,  “  but  this  is  an  old,  worn  one.” 

“  Yes,  but  this  book  is  sold  out,”  said  the  book-seller.  “  It  is 
very  much  inquired  after ;  it  is  quite  a  famous  book,  by  Ander¬ 
sen,  who  is  now  in  Spain  ;  there  was  a  commendatory  piece 
about  him  and  this  book  in  ‘  La  Gironde  ’  day  before  yester¬ 
day.”  At  that  my  friend  could  not  keep  back,  and  said  that 
I  was  Andersen,  and  the  book-seller  made  a  low,  civil  bow,  as 
his  wife  did  also. 

My  friends  urged  me  to  extend  my  stay  here,  and  to  give 
up  Paris,  where  the  cholera  was  ;  that  I  would  gladly  have 
done,  but  the  shortest  way  home  led  by  Paris.  I  went  to  the 
Grand  Hotel  on  the  Boulevard,  said  to  be  the  healthiest  quar¬ 
ter  ;  but  remained  only  a  day  and  night,  visited  no  one,  and 
did  not  go  to  the  theatre,  but  kept  quiet,  and  then  the  next 
evening  set  out  by  rail  through  France,  where  they  said  that 
the  cholera  was  in  nearly  every  town,  and  came  to  Cologne, 
where  nobody  spoke  of  the  cholera,  for  the  town  was  quite  free 
from  it. 

I  went  to  Hamburg,  where  I  believed  myself  quite  bevond 
the  plague,  and  there  I  stayed  a  few  days  for  rest,  went  to  the 
theatre,  and  was  hospitably  entertained  at  a  supper  just  before 


540 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


the. morning  of  my  departure.  I  heard  accidentally,  and  read 
afterward  the  confirmation  in  the  papers,  that  at  this  very 
time  the  cholera  was  at  its  height  here  ;  that  men  were  dying 
by  the  hundred  every  day,  while  in  great  Paris,  which  I  had 
hurried  away  from,  the  deaths  were  not  more  than  fourteen  a 
day.  I  was  most  disagreeably  affected,  and  immediately  be¬ 
gan  to  diet,  had  pains  in  my  stomach,  and  an  unquiet  night, 
and  early  the  next  morning  I  fled  through  the  Grand  Duchy, 
and  in  the  afternoon  was  in  Denmark  and  in  my  native  town 
of  Odense. 

My  first  visit  was  to  the  Bishop’s  house,  to  my  noble,  learned 
friend  Bishop  Engelstoft,  where  I  knew  I  should  find  the  most 
cordial  welcome.  With  him  I  saw  the  old  landmarks,  —  the 
house  where  I  had  spent  my  childhood,  and  St.  Knud’s  Church, 
where  I  stood  for  Confirmation,  and  where,  in  the  church¬ 
yard,  my  father  lay  buried.  Many  friends  in  my  native  place 
followed  me  in  the  afternoon  to  the  station,  as  I  wished  to  be 
at  Soro  that  evening,  when  I  would  surprise  good  Madame 
Ingemann  with  an  unexpected  visit ;  but  at  the  station  I  heard 
that  only  an  hour  or  two  before  she  had  come  by  the  train 
from  Copenhagen,  where  this  old,  deaf,  and  almost  blind  lady 
had  undergone  an  operation  on  her  eyes,  and  seemed  ex¬ 
hausted  and  depressed.  I  gave  up  the  visit,  and  took  up  my 
quarters  at  the  little  inn  by  the  station.  They  knew  nothing 
of  mattresses  for  beds,  but  had  only  oppressively  hot  feather 
beds  ;  so  I  put  one  at  the  bottom,  covered  it  with  a  straw 
sack,  and  put  my  plaid  on  top  of  that,  and  so  made  comforta¬ 
ble,  I  slept  till  the  early  morning,  when  I  took  the  train  to 
Roeskilde,  to  my  friends  Hartmann  and  his  wife.  The  day 
after  I  was  in  Copenhagen. 

My  travelling  was  over,  and  again  I  was  to  grow  fast  in  the 
home  soil,  drink  in  its  sunshine,  feel  the  sharp  winds,  live  in 
the  hubbub,  and  know  nothing  of  wandering  except  perhaps  in 
a  wonder  story  ;  but  I  w7as  also  to  live  among  the  great  things 
of  the  good,  the  true,  and  the  beautiful,  with  which  our  Lord 
has  gifted  my  native  land. 

My  faithful  friends,  the  Melchiors,  received  me  at  the  station 
and  took  me  to  their  country-seat  “  Rolighed  ”  (Quiet),  just 
outside  the  town.  Above  the  door  were  flowers  woven  intc 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


541 


the  word  “Welcome  !  ”  the  Dannebrog  flag  waved.  From  the 
balcony  before  my  room  I  looked  out  over  the  Sound,  which 
was  filled  with  sail  and  steamships.  I  met  my  friends,  men 
and  women.  A  few  evenings  were  so  mild  and  quiet,  as  if  in 
southern  latitudes,  that  the  candles  were  lighted  on  the  table 
under  the  high  trees  in  the  garden :  multitudes  of  fire-flies 
vere  here,  and  I  could  easily  have  fancied  myself  at  Bonegos, 
n  Portugal.  All  the  kindness  which  fortune  and  affection 
:ould  give  one  was  given  me  here ;  they  were  charming  days, 
and  I  have  renewed  them  since. 

Among  the  distinguished  men  whom  I  met  here  was  a 
young  man  whose  genius  I  esteemed  and  admired,  the  painter 
Carl  Bloch.  We  had,  during  my  last  visit  in  Rome,  met  a 
single  time,  and  at  home  I  came  to  appreciate  his  renown  as 
an  artist  and  his  estimable  character  as  a  man.  At  Rolighed 
our  friendship  was  knit  more  closely,  and  the  new  stories 
which  appeared  at  the  close  of  the  year  were  dedicated  to  him. 
In  the  copy  which  I  sent  him  I  wrote,  — 

CARL  BLOCH. 

It  was  an  Exhibition  time  at  Charlottesburg, 

And  everything  was  new,  charming,  and  fair. 

A  picture  took  my  fancy,  —  a  monk  stood,  young  and  clever, 

And  looked  upon  two  married  folk,  who  homeward  rode, 

Mounted  on  asses,  and  both  with  happy  faces  ; 

And  the  young  monk’s  soul  and  passion  thoughts 
Grew  dark  with  sorrow  looking  on  the  scene,  — 

And  one  felt  sure  this  painter  had  a  heart. 

Each  year  came  forth  a  new  and  glorious  work  ; 

Samson  we  saw,  set  midst  the  Philistines  ; 

W e  saw  “  The  Barber,”  and  “  The  Roman  Boy  ;  ” 

The  grief  of  life  and  humor  truly  shown. 

And  now  “  Prometheus  ”  came,  and  from  men’s  eye# 

Melted  the  snow —  how  great  that  picture  was  ! 

My  happiness  I  shared  with  Copenhagen. 

And  then  we  met.  Thou  wert  just  what  I  thought  t 
A  child  in  soul  and  yet  so  manly-wise  ; 

Modest,  and  doubting  of  thy  own  great  strength, 

Yet  very  sure  of  what  our  Lord  had  bade  thee, 

For  otherwise  such  work  could  ne’er  be  done. 

And  since  I  found  thy  love,  take  thou  my  flowers 
That  tell  my  pleasure  and  my  heart’s  good- wilt 


542 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


One  of  the  first  days  after  my  arrival  home,  I  was  graciously 
and  cordially,  as  ever,  received  by  the  royal  family,  —  at  the  end 
of  the  very  week  when  the  king’s  noble  and  amiable  daughter 
Dagmar  left  Denmark  and  became  Russia’s  Grand  Duchess. 
I  had  one  more  talk  with  her  in  her  ancestral  home. 

As  she  left,  I  stood  in  the  crowd  of  men  on  the  wharf  where 
she,  with  her  royal  parents,  went  on  board.  She  saw  me, 
stepped  up  to  me  and  shook  my  hand  warmly.  Tears  started 
from  my  eyes :  they  were  in  my  heart  for  our  young  princess. 
Everything  promises  for  her  happiness  ;  an  excellent  family 
like  that  she  left,  is  that  she  has  entered.  A  fortunate  pair  are 
she  and  her  noble  husband. 

I  had  not  yet  since  my  return  home  seen  good  Madame 
Ingerhann.  I  hastened  out  to  her.  She  was  overjoyed  at 
the  recovery  of  her  sight ;  how  glad  too  she  was  in  thought  at 
the  anticipation  of  a  still  better  sight,  the  meeting  again  with 
Ingemann.  From  Soro  I  went  to  Holsteinborg.  One  day 
the  lady  of  the  place  took  me  to  see  a  poor  paralytic  girl,  who 
lived  near  by  in  a  neat  little  house  by  the  road-side,  but  had  a 
very  poor  view,  since  the  house  was  situated  on  low  ground 
and  a  high  bank  was  thrown  up  before  it.  The  sun  never 
shone  into  the  room  because  the  window  looked  north.  This 
could  be  helped,  thought  the  kind  lady  of  the  castle.  She  had 
the  poor  paralytic  brought  up  to  the  manor  one  day,  and 
meanwhile  sent  masons  to  the  house,  and  had  them  break  the 
wall  through  to  the  south,  and  insert  a  window  there,  and  now 
the  sun  shone  into  the  room.  The  sick  girl  came  to  her  home 
and  sat  there  in  the  sunshine  ;  she  could  see  the  woods  and 
the  shore,  the  world  grew  wondrous  large,  and  this  just  by  one 
word  of  the  gracious  lady. 

“  That  word  was  so  easy,  the  act  so  little,”  said  she,  and  I  too 
expressed  my  pleasure  as  I  accompanied  her  who  had  done 
this  and  many  another  Christian  act.  I  placed  this  among  my 
small  stories  and  called  it  “  Kept  close  is  not  forgotten.” 

Or.  my  return  to  Copenhagen  I  moved  into  my  new  apart¬ 
ment  upon  the  King’s  New  Market  Place,  Copenhagen’s 
greatest  and  finest  square,  with  the  Royal  Theatre,  one  of  the 
least  beautiful  buildings,  just  before  me  ;  but  it  is  good  inside, 
and  bound  to  my  affection  by  many  memories.  Perhaps  it 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE .  543 

may  please  one  and  another  of  my  friends  on  the  other  side 
of  the  water  to  hear  of  my  home  in  Copenhagen. 

The  house  stands,  as  I  said,  on  Kongen’s  Nytorv ;  in  the 
building  is  one  of  the  largest  and  most  frequented  cafes  of 
the  town  ;  in  the  first  hall  a  refreshment  room,  and  in  the 
second  a  club-room.  On  the  story  with  me  a  lawyer  lhts, 
while  overhead  is  a  photograph  atelier;  so  it  will  be  seen 
that  I  have  meat  and  drink  near  by,  have  no  want  of  society  ; 
I  cannot  die  away  from  a  lawyer,  and  a  photographer  is  at 
hand  to  secure  my  picture  for  posterity.  I  am  certainly  very 
well  placed  ;  my  little  apartment —  1  have  only  two  rooms — ■ 
is  snug  and  sunny,  and  adorned  with  pictures,  books,  statues, 
and  what  my  lady  friends  especially  provide  for  me,  flowers 
and  something  green,  which  are  always  there.  In  the  Royal 
Theatre,  at  the  Casino,  I  have  every  evening  my  pleasant  seat. 
All  classes  of  the  community  are  kind  and  friendly  in  receiv¬ 
ing  me  into  their  circles. 

In  Copenhagen  it  is  the  custom  in  several  families  that  on 
a  certain  day  in  the  week  they  see  their  friends  at  dinner  or 
in  the  evening,  but  one  is  nevertheless  free  and  can  accept 
another  invitation.  I  have  almost  from  my  student  days  so 
spent  my  noons.  I  will  give  here  a  short  sketch  of  my  vary¬ 
ing  seven  days  of  the  week,  and  cut  a  silhouette  picture  of  a 
few  of  my  most  intimate  circles  of  friends. 

Monday  calls  me  to  some  friends  of  many  years’  standing,  — 
friends  through  good  and  evil  days,  State  Councilor  Edward 
Collin  and  family.  Of  him,  his  wife,  and  his  children  I  have 
often  spoken  in  “  The  Story  of  my  Life  I  will  only  add  what 
the  excellent  Fredrika  Bremer  once  said  with  great  truth': 
“  Madame  Collin  was  the  first  Danish  lady  I  saw  and  spoke 
with  in  Copenhagen,  and  she  is  the  type  to  me  of  the  noblest 
and  best  women  that  Denmark  possesses. 

Tuesday  takes  me  out  of  town  to  a  half-country  like  place  ; 
near  to  the  shore  lives  the  Drewsen  family.  Drewsen  is  the 
son-in-law  of  Collin’s  father.  I  have  spoken  before  of  his 
sons,  and  have  sung  of  little  Wiggo.  The  mother,  Madame 
Ingeborg  Drewsen,  was  always  a  steadfast,  sympathetic  sister 
to  me,  from  the  first  time  her  father  opened  his  house  to  me 
a  youthful,  fresh  spirit,  a  sparkling  humor,  and  a  fervor  and 
depth  are  the  gTts  she  has  received  from  our  Lord. 


544 


THE  STOR  V  OF  MV  LIFE. 


On  Wednesday  I  go  to  that  home  which  early  received  me, 
ever,  before  my  student  days,  and  has  continued  thus  to  this 
time,  while  one  after  another  of  those  I  met  there  were  called 
away  to  God,  —  Hans  Christian  Orsted’s  house  ;  he  himself, 
the  bright,  gentle  sun  within,  is  gone  ;  his  wife  and  richly 
gifted  youngest  daughter  Mathilde  are  now  the  only  ones  left. 
From  the  earliest  time  I  always  read  there  whatever  new 
thing  I  had  written,  or  now  write :  it  is  as  a  memory  of  the 
days  gone  by. 

Thursday  was  the  day  at  home  at  the  elder  Collin’s  house. 
I  used  to  gather  with  all  his  children  on  that  day.  He  too 
is  gone,  and  this  day  takes  me  now  to  a  home  where  the 
affection  for  me  is  likewise  strong  and  considerate,  where  hus¬ 
band.  wife,  and  children  treat  me  as  if  I  belonged  to  the  family 
of  Melchior. 

Friday  also  takes  me  back  to  a  home  full  of  early  remem¬ 
brances,  which  I  have  with  Henriette  Wulff ’s  sister,  Madame 
Ida  Koit.  We  have  the  same  memories  clustering  about  her 
parents’  house.  I  have  seen  her  as  a  child,  as  a  mistress  at 
home,  and  now  as  a  loving  grandmother  ;  and  I  have  in  her 
children  and  grandchildren  devoted  friends. 

Saturday  was  the  day  of  meeting  at  Madame  Neergaard’s, 
where  she  was  truly  Danish  and  Christian  in  thought  and  good 
deeds  that  shone  over  her  circle.  God  has  called  her  away, 
and  given  me  a  home  akin  to  this  with  the  family  at  Basnos. 

Sunday  I  can  describe  by  pointing  back  to  my  visit  at  Upsala 
and  the  serenade  there,  which  was  not  for  me  but  for  the 
wise  and  musical  Madame  Henriques  :  her  hospitable  husband 
throws  open  his  house  to  all  that  is  good  and  worthy,  while 
cordiality  and  music  invite  the  guests. 

There  !  there  are  the  seven  days  of  the  week,  and.  should  it 
be  noticed  that  it  is  the  mother  of  the  house  whom  I  always 
put  first,  one  will  understand  my  thoughts  —  she  is  the  very 
one  who  makes  the  table  beautiful  and  spreads  sunshine  over 
the  room. 


1867. 

One  evening  late  in  January,  at  the  Students’  Association, 
tarhere  hitherto  I  only  had  read  my  stories,  two  of  these. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


545 

uThe  Butterfly”  and  “The  Happy  Family”  were  recited  by 
Professor  Hoedt,  and  received  most  hearty  applause.  The 
carefulness,  the  humor,  and  the  dramatic  manner  with  which 
he  gave  these  little  stories  were  qualities  of  good  work. 

When  Professor  Hoedt  was  still  a  young  student  he  ap¬ 
peared  on  the  royal  Danish  stage  as  Hamlet  and  Solomon  de 
Cans ;  in  what  I  recall  most  vividly  as  Toby,  in  “  The  Depu¬ 
ties,”  and  as  Harlequin  in  Heiberg’s  comedy,  “The  Invisible.5 
At  the  social  supper  table  at  the  Student’s  Association,  where  he 
had  recited  the  two  Wonder  Stories  mentioned  above,  he  gave 
a  viva  for  me,  and  said  in  the  toast  he  offered  that  his  first 
appearance  as  an  actor  had  been  at  the  Students’  Associa¬ 
tion,  and  that  in  a  student  comedy  by  H.  C.  Andersen  ;  there¬ 
fore  had  he  this  evening,  when  after  many  years  he  stood  again 
on  the  boards  here,  wished  to  recite  a  wonder  story  of  Ander¬ 
sen’s  who  had  continued  to  be  a  member  of  the  association, 
fresh  and  young, — yes,  perhaps  even  younger  than  when  first 
admitted. 

We  got  out  now  the  old  play  bills  that  showed  the  represen¬ 
tations  given  by  the  students,  and  among  these  was  found  my 
comedy,  “  Long  Bridge,”  which  should  not  be  confounded  with 
my  later  drama,  “  On  the  Long  Bridge.”  The  first  is  a  sort  of 
reverie  over  all  that  in  the  course  of  years  had  transpired  at 
Copenhagen,  in  the  councils  of  literature,  art,  and  the  drama. 
The  piece  is  quite  akin  to  the  French  reverie  style,  which 
has  since,  with  great  effect,  been  introduced  among  us  by  Herr 
Erik  Bogh  ;  but  when  I  used  it,  it  was  a  kind  of  art  of  which 
we  at  home  knew  nothing.  I  myself  knew  nothing  of  it ;  it 
was  an  idea  that  came  to  me,  a  room  into  which  I  had  admit¬ 
ted  whatever  had  especially  impressed  me  in  the  years  that 
had  passed  and  in  the  people  who  lived  in  them. 

Professor  Hoedt  was,  as  I  have  said,  the  first,  with  the  ex¬ 
ception  of  myself,  who  had  read  my  stories  at  the  Students’  As¬ 
sociation  ;  but  from  the  Royal  Theatre,  as  well  as  from  the  Ca¬ 
sino  and  from  other  private  theatres,  for  some  time  back,  a  num¬ 
ber  of  my  stories  had  been  recited.  The  first  who  ventured  it 
was  the  highly  honored  actress  Miss  Jiirgensen,  whose  dramatic 
faculty  was  so  great,  that  while  one  evening  she  appeared  with 
tragic  majesty  as  Queen  Bera  in  Oehlenschb'ger’s  tragedy, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


54<5 

“  Hagbarth  and  Signe,”  one  was  amused  the  next  e/«  ning  witl 
her  equally  humorous  rendering  of  the  governess  Miss  Trumph • 
mayer ,  in  Heiberg’s  “  April  Snares.  ”  The  most  celebrated  art* 
ist  in  comedy  on  the  Danish  stage,  Instructor  Phister,  the  Pro¬ 
teus  of  manifold  roles ,  created  a  complete  dramatic  work  when 
he  told  the  story  of  the  “  Emperor’s  New  Clothes.” 

The  actor  Nielsen,  who  took  the  part  of  Hakon  jfarl  and 
of  Macbeth ,  recited  in  private  circles,  and  upon  his  tour  in 
Sweden  and  Norway,  several  of  my  stories.  Our  well  known 
Michael  Wiehe  gave  with  an  ardor,  a  naivete,  and  a  humor 
unequaled  by  any,  “  It  is  certainly  so,”  “Tip  top,”  and  “Jack 
the  Dullard.”  Very  like  him,  and  touched  with  a  child-like 
nature,  was  the  distinguished  actor  at  the  Casino,  Christian 
Schmidt.  Recently  and  very  often  it  is  the  royal  actor  Mant- 
zius  who  has  especially  contributed  to  make  my  stories  popular 
by  his  excellent  dramatic  talent.  The  gifted  philosopher,  Pro¬ 
fessor  Rasmus  Nielsen,  in  the  days  just  before  these,  unfolded 
by  his  reading  at  the  university  the  meaning  in  my  two  stories 
“The  Snow  Man,”  and  “What  the  Good-man  does  is  sure 
to  be  right.”  ' 

On  my  birthday,  the  second  of  April,  my  room  was  made 
delightful  with  flowers,  pictures,  and  books.  There  was  music 
and  speaking  at  my  friends’  the  Melchiors ;  the  spring  sun 
shone  without ;  within  in  my  heart  there  was  shining  too.  I 
looked  back  over  the  years  that  had  fled  :  how  much  happiness 
had  there  not  been  granted  me,  but  always  rises  the  anxious 
doubt.  I  must  think  upon  the  old  story  about  the  gods  who 
could  be  jealous  of  men,  when  they  were  exalted  too  much  by 
their  fortune,  and  so  destroyed  them.  Yet  that  was  in  heathen 
times  :  now  we  live  in  Christian  days,  and  “  God  is  love.” 

Hie  great  Exhibition  at  Paris  had  just  opened.  People 
from  aU  lands  were  streaming*to  it.  Fata  Morgana’s  castle 
had  been  reared  or,  the  Champs  de  Mars,  which  had  been  trans- 
l)i  rued  into  the  most  beautiful  garden.  I  must  go  there  and 
see  the  fairy  tale  of  our  time.  By  the  eleventh  of  April  I 
was  in  the  train,  going  past  Funen,  through  the  Grand  Duchy 
and  Germany,  hurrying  toward  Paris. 

The  exhibition  palace  had  been  built,  but  was  still  con¬ 
stantly  growing.  The  buildings  about  it,  complete  gardens 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


547 

laid  out  with  canals,  grottoes,  and  water-falls  were  in  busy 
preparation.  Every  day  one  saw  a  great  progress.  It  all 
took  possession  of  my  soul.  I  came  here  almost  daily,  and 
met  acquaintances  and  friends  from  different  countries  of  the 
world.  It  was  as  if  a  great  rendezvous  had  been  appointed 
here. 

One  day  as  I  went  out  there,  there  came  an  elegantly 
dressed  lady  with  her  husband,  a  negro.  She  addressed  me 
in  a  mixed  speech  of  Swedo-English-German.  She  was  born 
in  Sweden,  but  had  lived  abroad  of  late  ;  she  knew  who  I  was 
from  my  portrait,  she  said,  and  introduced  me  to  her  husband, 
the  famous  actor,  the  negro  Ira  Aldridge,  who  was  just  now 
playing  to  the  Parisians  at  the  Odeon,  where  he  took  the  role 
of  Othello.  I  pressed  the  artist’s  hand,  and  we  exchanged 
some  friendly  words  in  English.  I  confess  it  gave  me  great 
pleasure  that  one  of  Africa’s  gifted  sons  should  greet  me  as  a 
friend.  There  was  a  time  when  I  should  not  have  ventured 
to  speak  of  such  a  thing,  but  my  surroundings  are  now  such 
that  it  is  no  mark  of  vanity,  but  of  my  pleasure  in  all  that  God 
has  granted  me,  —  the  book  of  fortune  indeed,  and  that  my 
friends  in  distant  lands  will  quickly  understand. 

One  of  the  gentlemen  in  the  English  department  of  the  ex¬ 
hibition  building  invited  me  one  day  to  dine  with  him  at  the 
Grand  Hotel  de  Louvre,  where  I  met  the  Englishman  Baker, 
the  discoverer  of  the  source  of  the  Nile.  He  was  here  with 
his  faithful  wife,  who  had  accompanied  him  on  that  perilous 
journey,  and  had  lent  him  faith,  courage,  and  fortitude.  To 
me  was  assigned  the  honor  of  taking  Lady  Baker  in  to  dinner. 

King  George  of  Greece  was  in  Paris.  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  again  the  young  King,  whom  I  had  known  from  his 
childhood  in  his  royal  father’s  house,  where  he  had  listened 
to  my  stories.  A  visit  from  him  was  expected  at  the  Exhibi¬ 
tion.  The  Grecian  division  stood  by  chance  next  to  the  Dan¬ 
ish  ;  by  a  single  step  one  went  from  Greece  to  Denmark. 
The  passage  was  adorned  with  Greek  flags  upon  the  Grecian 
side  and  with  the  Danish  flag  upon  the  Danish.  I  was  asked 
to  write  an  inscription,  and  I  wrote  upon  the  spot  a  little  verse, 
which  was  soon  waving  in  large  letters  among  the  flags  and 
banners. 


THE  STORY  OF  M\  LIFE. 


548 

In  the  Danish  division  there  were  many  photographic  por* 
traits  from  Copenhagen,  and  a  fine  collection  of  busts  in  clay 
of  eminent  Danes.  Many  strangers  had  inquired  for  my 
picture  and  bust,  without  finding  it.  But  this  was  no  fault  of 
the  committee.  The  President,  Chamberlain  Wolffhagen  told 
me  that  he  had  written  repeatedly  to  Copenhagen,  asking 
especially  for  two  busts,  one  of  the  deceased  State  Councilor, 
the  antiquarian  Thomsen,  and  one  of  H.  C.  Andersen.  The 
reply  came  that  the  busts  which  he  desired  did  not  exist  in 
marble  ;  then  they  were  asked  for  in  plaster,  and  there  were 
sent  Thomsen’s  bust  and  that  of  the  Norwegian  writer  Bjorn- 
stjerne  Bjornson,  not  Andersen’s. 

Among  my  countrymen  in  Paris  was  Robert  Wall,  young 
and  vivacious,  yet  one  of  those  who  have  experienced  heavy 
trials  in  youth,  and  it  was  this  which  especially  interested  me 
in  him.  His  father  had  owned  a  place  in  Jutland,  was  well 
to  do,  and  gave  his  children  an  excellent  education.  Circum¬ 
stances  were  changed,  and  at  their  father’s  death  the  children 
had  to  look  out  for  themselves.  Young  Robert  found  a  place 
in  a  merchant’s  counting-room  in  Aarhuus,  when  a  letter 
came  from  his  uncle,  who  lived  in  Melbourne,  in  Australia, 
who  wished  him  to  come  and  be  a  son  to  him.  The  young 
man  immediately  set  out  with  high  hopes  and  travelled  thither 
safely,  but  on  his  arrival  his  uncle  had  lost  his  property  and 
had  suddenly  become  a  poor  man,  so  that  Robert  stood  desti¬ 
tute,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.  But  his  heart  did  not  fail ; 
he  tried  various  situations,  all  honorable,  but  all  poor :  trav¬ 
elled  as  a  driver,  washed  in  the  gold  mines,  and  when  he  had 
gotten  together  as  much  money  as  would  take  him  back  to 
Denmark,  he  hastened  thither,  where  he  described  in  a  lively 
way  Australian  scenes,  and  wrote  sketches  of  travel  as  a  feuil¬ 
letonist  in  “  Dagbladet.”  All  this,  carried  on  with  spirit  and  a 
fresh  youthfulness,  won  my  interest,  and  my  heart  wishes  for 
him  a  bright  future. 

On  the  twenty-sixth  of  May,  the  silver  wedding  day  of  the 
royal  pair,  I  wished  to  be  in  Copenhagen,  and  I  desired  to 
make  my  journey  home  lie  by  way  of  Le  Locle  in  Switzerland. 
Before  I  left  Paris  I  received  an  invitation  from  countrymen 
ind  Swedish  and  Norwegian  friends  to  meet  with  them  in  a 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


549 

Scandinavian  gathering.  It  was  a  repetition  of  the  feast  which 
Bjornstjerne  Bjornson  brought  about  for  me  when  we  last  met 
here.  The  northern  flags  waved,  King  Christian’s  and  King 
Carl’s  portraits  were  decorated  with  fresh  flowers.  Chamber- 
lain  Wolff hagen  proposed  a  health  to  the  northern  kings,  and 
songs  were  sung.  I  read  Wonder  Stories  and  proposed  a 
toast  to  northern  poetry. 

From  Paris  to  Neufchatel  it  is  only  a  day’s  journey  by  rail. 
At  sunset  I  came  to  the  boundary  of  Switzerland.  The  Juia 
Mountains,  clad  with  oak,  beech,  and  pine,  rose  before  me. 
The  way  led  now  through  tunnel  after  tunnel ;  in  many  places 
the  iron  rails  passed  close  by  steep  precipices  ;  one  could  look 
down  far  below  and  see  houses  and  towns.  The  lights  trem¬ 
bled  there,  the  stars  shone  far  above,  and  in  the  evening  I 
was  at  Neufchatel,  and  soon  up  on  the  heights  at  Le  Locle  with 
my  friend  Louis  Jiirgensen. 

The  beech-trees  stood  with  their  fresh  leaves,  the*bushes 
were  green,  but  the  snow  fell,  and  every  bush  looked  like  a 
blossoming  whitethorn.  The  cold  increased,  and  I  could  not 
travel  nor  get  to  Copenhagen  in  time  for  the  festival.  A 
song  of  welcome,  written  from  my  heart,  I  sent  home  in  a  let¬ 
ter  to  the  Crown  Prince  Frederick,  who  graciously  delivered  it 
to  his  royal  parents.  “  From  William  Tell’s  land  to  the  land 
of  Palnatoke  ”  flew  my  thoughts,  with  the  best  wishes  of  my 
heart.  Jules  Jiirgensen  raised  the  Dannebrog,  and  in  the  bub¬ 
bling  champagne  we  drank  a  toast  in  honor  of  the  silver  wed¬ 
ding  of  King  Christian  IX.  and  Queen  Louise. 

A  few  days  after  I  left  my  dear  friends  at  Le  Locle  arid 
was  soon  in  Copenhagen.  At  the  King’s  silver  wedding,  many 
were  honored  with  honorable  mention  or  with  order.  The 
King  had  graciously  bestowed  upon  me  the  title  of  State 
Councilor.  I  tendered  his  majesty  my  profound  thanks.  The 
royal  family  was  at  Fredensborg.  Princess  Dagmar,  now  the 
Grand  Princess  of  Russia,  was  here  on  a  visit  to  her  royal 
parents.  I  went  out  there ;  it  was  not  an  audience  day,  but 
I  was  nevertheless  received,  and  that  with  great  warmth  and 
kindness.  The  King  asked  me  to  stay  to  dinner,  where  I 
met  and  talked  with  the  amiable,  noble  Princess  Dagmar. 
She  told  me  that  she  had  read  a  Russian  edition  of  my  stories, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


550 

which  she  knew  so  well  before  in  Danish,  and  so  I  had  spent 
another  delightful  day  with  the  King’s  family. 

It  was  warm  summer,  and  not  at  all  pleasant  to  be  in  the 
heated  streets  of  the  town.  I  became  the  guest  of  my  friends 
the  Melchiors,  at  Rolighed,  and  wrote  there  “  Godfather’s  Pic¬ 
ture-book  ”  and  the  story  of  “  The  Greenies,”  but  there  was  al¬ 
ways  coming  up  in  my  thoughts  a  desire  to  give  in  a  wonder 
story  my  impression  of  the  Paris  Exhibition,  the  wonderful  won¬ 
der  story  of  our  time,  which  is  called  so  material.  I  needed 
to  fix  some  point  of  departure  for  it,  when .  suddenly  there 
came  to  me  a  reminiscence  of  my  visit  to  Paris  in  the  spring  of 
1866  when  I  was  travelling  to  Lisbon.  I  stayed  then  at  the 
Hotel  Louvois,  in  the  Place  Louvois,  by  the  Royal  Library. 
There  is  a  little  garden  there  surrounding  a  fountain.  One  of 
the  great  trees  had  died,  and  so  it  had  been  torn  up  out  of  the 
earth  and  thrown  aside  ;  near  by  was  a  heavy  cart  with  a  large 
vigorous  tree  brought  in  from  the  country  to  be  planted  here. 
“  Poor  tree  !  poor  Dryad  !  ”  thought  I  ;  “  thou  earnest  from  thy 
pleasant,  fresh  country  air  here,  to  drink  in  the  gas  and  the  lime 
dust  and  find  thy  death.”  There  was  a  suggestion  for  a  poem 
here,  and  it  accompanied  me  to  Holsteinborg,  Basnos,  and 
Glorup.  I  began  to  write  it  down,  but  was  not  satisfied  with 
it.  I  had  only  seen  the  Exhibition  at  its  beginning,  and  it  was 
only  now  that  it  could  be  seen  in  its  completeness.  I  felt  a 
strong  desire  to  go  there  again,  but  to  journey  to  Paris  twice 
in  a  summer  was  a  little  too  much  — when  one  is  not  rich ;  1 
must  get  over  it  some  way. 

While  I  was  at  Holsteinborg  in  August,  Copenhagen  was 
visited  by  a  number  of  young  and  old  French  journalists. 
Their  reception  was  so  cordial,  so  much  a  matter  of  popular 
feeling,  it  was  as  if  one  had  announced,  “Here  are  faithful 
friends  who  come,  children  of  France,  our  old  ally.”  I  heard 
through  the  papers  of  the  entertainments  given  them  and  of 
the  jovial  days  that  passed,  but  it  was  not  expedient  for  me  to 
go  to  town  and  take  part  in  the  festivity. 

Just  as  the  last  French  visitors  were  departing  from  Copen¬ 
hagen  I  entered  the  station  and  talked  there  with  Edward 
Tarbe  now  director  of  “  Le  Gaulois,”  and  with  the  author  Vic¬ 
tor  Tourne1,  who  has  since  written  an  interesting  and  well  con* 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE . 


551 

sidered  work,  “  Le  Danemark  contemporain  :  Etudes  et  Sou- 
venirs  d’un  Voyageur.”  He  was  acquainted  with  several  of 
my  writings,  and  at  his  departure  I  expressed  the  hope  that 
we  might  soon  see  each  other  in  Paris.  And  this  was  the 
case.  I  could  not  longer  resist  the  impulse  to  travel  and  to 
see  the  Exhibition  in  its  complete  magnificence  before  it 
should  disappear,  and  then  I  could  finish  my  story  of  “  The 
Dryad.” 

The  first  of  September  I  set  out.  Robert  Watt  also  desired 
to  see  the  Exhibition  again,  and  see  it  in  its  full  flower,  so  we 
went  together.  The  thunder  rolled,  the  lightning  flashed,  it 
was  a  most  striking  journey.  At  Corsor  we  went  on  board 
the  boat,  which  was  loaded  down  with  freight.  In  the  rain  and 
darkness  one  reeled  over  the  deck,  and  flash  succeeded  flash. 
At  daybreak  we  came  to  Kiel,  and  flew  through  Germany  to 
reach  Paris,  but  stopped  to  rest  at  Strasbourg.  We  reached 
there  at  evening.  The  tattoo  beat  so  that  the  old  timber  work 
house  in  which  we  were  shook.  The  old  cathedral  stood  be¬ 
fore  us  and  cared  very  little  about  our  visit  in  the  morning  : 
it  had  had  a  visit  from  the  great  world’s  storm  king,  his  wife, 
and  children,  who  had  left  their  name  carved  upon  the  old 
bells  so  that  they  might  ring  it  out  to  the  world.  The  even¬ 
ing  was  fine  ;  I  felt  happy  at  once  more  being  in  France ;  I 
was  young  again,  as  I  always  feel  on  a  journey.  “  Two-and- 
sixty  years  old,”  says  the  baptismal  record  ;  “  Two-and-sixty 
seconds,”  Eternity  says. 

It  was  market  day  in  Strasbourg,  and  it  was  not  easy  to 
press  through  the  crowd  to  the  church,  so  splendid  with  its  fila¬ 
gree  work  in  stone,  as  if  it  were  all  cast  in  a  foundry,  a  beauti¬ 
ful  picture  of  Gothic  art.  “  Master  Bloodless  ”  stirred  within 
in  the  great  clock.  The  clock  struck  ten  just  then,  and  the 
figures  started  out.  Death  struck  the  strokes ;  the  old  hour 
v/ent  and  the  new  hour  came  and  stood  still  and  waited  till 
the  last  stroke  had  sounded,  when  it  began  its  own  course. 
A  crowd  of  strangers  about  us  looked  on  ;  among  them  I  dis¬ 
covered  my  good  friend  from  Bordeaux,  Francis  Michel,  the 
translator  of  the  Basque  folk-lore. 

We  were  soon  in  Paris,  and  again  in  the  Aladdin’s  castle 
*f  our  time,  the  wonderfil  Exhibition  Palace,  with  a  Fata 


552 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


Morgana  in  reality;  the  garden  of  enchantment,  —  •  with  its 
flowers  from  South  and  North,  the  great  aquaria  where  one, 
as  if  in  a  glass  diving-bell  in  the  sea  or  at  the  bottom  of  fresh 
water  lakes,  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  Hall  of  Fishes.  I  was 
filled  with  astonishment  at  all  I  saw.  In  a  cafe  where  Danish 
papers  could  be  found  I  read  in  one  of  them  a  letter  de¬ 
scribing  the  Exhibition,  in  which  it  was  said  that  no  one  ex¬ 
cept  Charles  Dickens  was  enough  of  a  writer  to  compose  an 
artistic  picture  from  this  splendid  performance.  There  was 
truth  in  that,  and  I  began  to  mistrust  myself  in  regard  to  the 
work  I  had  undertaken,  and  soon,  w'hile  I  was  in  Paris,  I  gave 
up  the  whole  thing.  The  advantage  I  was  to  find,  and  for 
which  I  had  travelled  here  a  second  time,  was  now  lost,  and  I 
had  myself  to  laugh  at.  I  had  not  felt  myself  at  home  before 
in  Paris  ;  but  this  year  the  Exhibition’s  fascination  had  ex¬ 
tended  over  the  whole,  and  I  felt  myself  borne  along  with  the 
town  of  pleasure. 

The  genial  feuilletonist,  the  intellectual  Philaret-Chasles, 
invited  me  to  Mendon  where  he  has  a  pretty  country-seat 
with  a  cozy  little  garden.  I  met  here  a  few  of  the  French 
journalists  who  had  visited  Copenhagen.  There  was  life  and 
spirit  here  !  Toasts  were  drunk  ;  one  speech  followed  another, 
like  butterflies  flitting  over  the  table.  Philaret-Chasles  after¬ 
ward,  at  a  lecture  to  the  students  in  Paris,  spoke  warmly  and 
highly  of  me  and  my  stories. 

Several  of  those  who  had  visited  Copenhagen  invited  me 
and  a  few  Danes  to  a  supper.  The  editor  of  “  La  Situation  ” 
was  there  and  several  distinguished  members  of  the  press  ; 
Edmond  Tarbe,  director  of  “  Le  Gaulois,”  who,  beside  his  sin¬ 
gular  journalistic  capacity,  has  a  decided  musical  talent,  an  in¬ 
heritance  surely  from  his*  mother,  who  must  rank  among  the 
best  composers  at  Paris.  Edmond  Tarbd  played  on  the  piano 
for  us  “  The  brave  Soldier-boy,”  and  then  the  Danish  popular 
piece  “  Roselil.”  There  was  a  Danish  character  to  the  feast 
thus  that  made  it  very  pleasant. 

I  wras  in  Mabille  for  the  first  time  the  next  evening.  I 
never  before  had  been  there.  It  was  finely  illuminated,  and 
lights  hung  on  the  weeping-willows  over  the  little  ponds, 
while  the  moon  shone  softly,  and  there  was  a  multitude  of 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


553 


people.  One  of  my  young  friends  swung  a  Mabille  beauty 
toward  me  and  asked,  “  What  do  you  say  to  such  poetry  as 
this  —  such  a  sight  as  this  ?  ”  I  pointed  to  the  moon  which 
shone  in  all  its  glory,  “  I  think  that  everlasting  sight  is  better.” 
“  Monsieur  !  ”  exclaimed  the  justly  offended  beauty.  I  stayed 
a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  have  in  “  The  Dryad  ”  given  the  im¬ 
pression  of  what  I  felt  and  saw. 

The  time  for  departure  from  Paris  drew  near,  and  I  left 
at  the  close  of  September.  On  the  way  home,  I  spent  a  few 
days  at  the  gambling  town  of  Baden  Baden.  In  Mabille 
there  was  gayety ;  I  knew  what  it  was  :  at  Baden  Baden  there 
was  a  fine  show,  but  the  place  had  an  unhappy,  demoniacal 
look.  The  great,  quiet  gaming-hall,  where  the  gold  pieces 
rolled,  was  to  me  as  if  Satan  himself  were  there  invisibly ; 
there  was  silence  and  gloom.  As  soon  as  I  had  returned 
home  to  my  hotel  after  my  first  visit,  I  wrote  out  my  mood  in  a 
little  poem  :  — 


THE  GAMBLING-HOUSE. 

Could  lights  and  pictures  only  call, 

They’d  say,  “  Come  to  the  feast,  my  friend  !  ” 

But  silence  dwelt  in  the  splendid  hall, 

One  heard  but  the  gold  its  message  send. 

Young  women  sat  with  feverish  breath 
And  threw  the  gold,  and  staked  their  all  ; 

There  came  a  laugh  like  the  laugh  of  death,  — 

“  I  want  a  life  in  the  gambling-hall.” 

Splendor  and  quiet  in  the  silent  place, 

Dumb  gold  and  throbbing  pulse  kept  pace. 

Still,  around  the  gambling-house,  the  baths,  and  the  town, 
are  mountains  and  woody  charms,  a  great  and  noble  castle 
ruin,  —  large  trees  growing  in  the  knightly  hall  ;  one  sees  from 
the  hanging  balconies,  far  out  over  the  winding  Rhine  mto 
France,  to  the  Vosges  Mountains. 

My  journey  home  was  a  hasty  one,  and  it  was  only  in 
Odense  that  I  took  a  day  and  night  for  rest.  The  Danne- 
brog  waved  from  the  houses,  new  soldiers  were  to  arrive.  In 
the  Riding-house  there  were  preparations  making  for  their  re¬ 
ception.  I  was  invited.  The  tables  were  loaded  down  with 
meat  and  drink.  The  ladies  and  their  daughters  in  the  town, 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


554 

all  appeared  there  as  ready  to  serve.  The  soldiers  came,  gave 
a  hurra,  and  sang  songs,  and  made  speeches.  How  changed 
for  the  better !  how  bright  and  pleasant  a  time  as  compared 
with  the  old  time  which  I  knew.  I  spoke  of  this,  and  re¬ 
marked  that  when  I  was  last  here,  in  the  Riding-house,  a 
long  time  ago  indeed,  I  was  quite  a  little  boy,  and  I  saw  a  sol¬ 
dier  run  the  gauntlet ;  now  I  came  and  saw  the  soldiers,  our 
defenders  and  guardians,  greeted  with  song  and  speeches,  and 
sit  beneath  the  waving  of  flags.  Blessed  be  our  time  ! 

A  few  of  my  friends  said  to  me  that  I  must  come  back  here 
at  least  once  a  year,  and  not  always  go  flying  through  my  birth¬ 
place  ;  that  it  would  make  a  celebration  for  me,  and  that  I 
should  certainly  get  an  invitation  in  November.  1  had  no 
inkling  how  great  it  was  to  be,  to  what  a  summit  of  fortune  in 
my  life  I  was  to  be  raised.  I  answered  that  I  was  truly  glad 
at  their  kind  expressions,  but  added,  —  “Forget  it  then  till 
1869,  on  the  fourth  of  September,  when  it  will  be  half  a  cent¬ 
ury  since  I  left  Odense  for  Copenhagen.  The  sixth  of  Sep¬ 
tember  I  was  there,  and  that  is  the  great  day  of  my  life,  but 
it  is  not  likely  that  any  one  would  think  of  that.  Rather  let 
me  come  over  here  to  Odense  upon  the  semi-centennial  of  my 
departure.” 

“  It  is  all  of  two  years  till  then,”  they  answered.  “  One 
ought  not  to  put  off  any  good  pleasure.  We  will  see  in  No¬ 
vember.” 

And  so  it  came  about.  The  old  prophecy,  made  when  I 
was  a  poor  boy,  going  out  from  Odense,  that  the  town  would 
one  day  be  illuminated  for  me,  was  fulfilled  in  the  most  beau¬ 
tiful  shape.  Late  in  November  I  received  in  Copenhagen  a 
communication  from  the  Common  Council  in  Odense. 

“In  the  Odense  Common  Council:  We  herewith  have  the 
honor  to  announce  to  your  Excellency  that  we  have  elected 
you  an  honorary  burgher  in  your  native  town  ;  permit  us  to 
invite  you  to  meet  with  us  here  in  Odense  on  Friday,  the  sixth 
of  December  next  ensuing,  upon  which  day  we  desire  to  de¬ 
liver  to  you  the  certificate  of  citizenship.”  Then  followed  the 
signature.  I  replied  :  — 

“  Last  night  I  received  the  communication  of  the  honorable 
Common  Council,  and  hasten  to  present  my  sincere  thanks. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE .  555 

My  birthplace  proffers  me,  through  you,  gentlemen,  a  mark  of 
esteem  greater  than  I  ever  dared  dream  of  receiving. 

“  It  is  this  year  forty-eight  years  since  I,  a  poor  boy,  left 
my  native  place  ;  and  now,  rich  in  happy  memories,  I  am  re* 
ceived  in  it  as  a  dear  child  is  received  in  his  father’s  house. 
You  will  understand  my  feelings.  I  am  lifted  up,  not  in  vanity, 
but  in  thankfulness  to  God  for  the  heavy  hours  of  trial  and 
the  many  days  of  blessing  He  has  granted  me.  Accept  the 
thanks  of  my  whole  heart. 

“  It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  on  the  day  appointed,  the 
six  December,  if  God  grant  me  health,  to  meet  with  my  noble 
friends  in  my  beloved  native  town. 

“  Your  grateful  and  humble 

“  H.  C.  Andersen.” 

On  the  fourth  of  December  I  went  to  Odense.  The  weather 
had  been  cold  and  stormy  ;  I  had  a  cold  and  suffered  from 
toothache,  but  now  the  sun  shone  and  it  was  quiet,  pleasant 
weather.  Bishop  Engelstoft  met  me  at  the  station,  and  took 
me  to  my  home  at  the  Bishop’s  house  by  Odense  River,  which 
I  have  described  in  my  story  of  “  The  Bell’s  Hollow.”  Sev¬ 
eral  of  the  town  officers  were  invited  to  dinner,  which  went 
off  pleasantly  and  with  great  liveliness. 

Now  came  the  important  sixth  of  December,  my  life’s  most 
beautiful  feast.  I  could  not  sleep  at  night.  I  was  oppressed 
in  body  and  soui.  I  felt  pains  in  my  breast  and  my  teeth 
ached,  as  if  to  remind  me,  —  In  all  your  honor,  you  are  yet  a 
child  of  mortality,  a  worm  of  the  dust ;  and  I  felt  it  not  only 
in  my  body’s  aches,  but  in  the  humility  of  my  soul.  How 
should,  how  ought  I  to  enjoy  my  incredible  fortune  !  I  knew 
not.  I  was  all  in  a  tremble. 

I  heard  in  the  morning  of  the  sixth  of  December  that  the 
town  was  beautifully  decorated,  that  all  the  schools  had  a 
holiday,  because  it  was  my  festival.  I  felt  cast  down,  humble, 
and  poor,  as  if  I  were  standing  before  my  God.  There  was  a 
revelation  to  me  of  every  evil  thing  within  me,  every  fault  and 
simple  thought,  word,  and  deed.  Everything  sprang  forth 
strangely  clear  in  my  soul,  as  if  it  were  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
—  and  it  was  the  day  of  my  honor.  God  knows  how  mean  I 
felt  myself  to  be,  when  men  so  exalted  and  honored  me. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


556 

In  the  forenoon  came  the  Chief  of  the  Police,  State  Coun¬ 
cilor  Koch,  and  Burgomaster  Mourier,  and  escorted  me  to  the 
Guild  Hall,  that  I  might  receive  my  diploma  of  honorary  citi- 
zenship.  From  almost  all  the  houses  in  the  streets  through 
which  we  drove  the  Dannebrog  waved.  There  was  a  great 
concourse  of  people  from  the  town,  and  from  the  country,  citi¬ 
zens  and  farmers.  I  heard  the  shouts  of  hurra,  and  before  the 
Guild  Hall  I  heard  music  ;  the  citizen’s  chorus  was  drawn  up, 
and  they  sang  melodies  to  my  songs,  “  Gurre  ”  and  “  I  love 
thee,  Denmark,  father-land  !  ”  I  was  overcome,  and  one  can 
understand  that  I  said  as  I  must  say  to  my  two  escorts,  “  What 
must  it  be  to  be  carried  to  the  place  of  execution  !  I  believe 
I  understand  the  sensation  now.” 

The  hall  was  filled  with  richly  dressed  ladies,  and  town 
officers  in  uniform  and  decorations.  I  saw  citizens  and  peas¬ 
ants  there. 

The  “  Funen  Advertiser  ”  gave  the  same  day  a  sketch  of 
the  scene,  as  follows  :  — 

“  At  ten  o’clock  in  the  morning  the  poet  H.  C.  Andersen 
was  presented  in  the  Guild  Hall  with  the  diploma  of  an  hon¬ 
orary  citizen.  The  Town  Council,  with  whom  the  idea  origi¬ 
nated,  summoned  him,  by  three  gentlemen  of  their  number, 
from  the  Bishop’s  house,  where  he  is  staying  during  his  visit 
here.  The  police  force  was  drawn  up  before  the  Guild  Hall, 
and  the  music  played  “  In  Denmark  was  I  born.” 

“  The  remaining  members  of  the  council  received  the  poet 
at  the  entrance,  when  he  was  escorted  by  the  Burgomaster 
into  the  hall,  which  had  been  decorated  with  flags,  flowers, 
and  his  own  bust,  while  the  ladies  rose  at  his  entrance.  The 
Burgomaster,  Councilor  of  Justice  Mourier,  spoke  in  behalf 
of  the  council,  of  the  occasion  upon  which  they  were  met,  and 
assured  the  poet  of  the  feelings  of  esteem  and  gratitude  which 
the  Danish  people  in  general,  but  the  inhabitants  of  Odense 
especially,  bore  toward  the  man  who  by  his  wonder  stories, 
songs,  and  stories,  had  delighted  and  strengthened  both  young 
and  old,  not  only  in  days  of  peace,  but  in  time  of  war,  and 
had  brought  honor  and  renown  to  Denmark’s  name  in  foreign 
fands. 

“  He  delivered  the  diploma  with  the  wish  that  the  poe# 


THE  STORY  OF  M7  LTFE.  557 

might  for  many  a  year  receive  strength  to  increase  the  treas¬ 
ures  with  which  he  had  enriched  Danish  literature. 

“  A  hearty  three  times  three  hurra  for  the  honorary  citizen 
showed  that  this  wish  found  a  response  with  all.  In  his  reply 
the  poet  expressed  himself  nearly  as  follows  :  — 

‘  The  great  distinction  which  my  native  town  has  bestowed 
upon  me  overwhelms  me  and  makes  me  proud.  I  must  think 
of  Oehlenschlager’s  Aladdrn ,  who  when  by  his  wonderful  lamp 
he  had  built  his  grand  castle,  stepped  to  the  window  and 
said  :  “  Down  there  I  walked  a  poor  boy.”  So  has  God 
granted  me  such  a  spiritual  lamp  —  Poesy  ;  and  when  its 
light  shone  over  other  countries,  and  men  were  pleased  at  it 
and  gave  it  their  praise,  and  said,  that  light  shone  from 
Denmark,  —  then  my  heart  beat  with  happiness.  I  knew 
that  at  home  I  had  sympathizing  friends,  and  surely  in  the 
town  where  my  cradle  stood  ;  and  it  gives  me  on  this  day  so 
honorable  a  proof  of  its  sympathy,  by  bestowing  upon  me  a 
distinction  so  overwhelmingly  great,  that  I  can  only  speak  my 
thanks  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.’  ” 

I  was  near  to  sinking,  overcome  by  the  whole  scene.  Only 
on  the  way  back  to  the  Bishop’s  house  did  I  have  eyes  for  the 
friendly  countenances  which  greeted  me.  I  heard  the  con¬ 
gratulations  of  the  multitude  ;  I  saw  the  waving  flags ;  but  in 
my  heart  the  thoughts  knocked  :  What  will  the  people  every¬ 
where  say  to  such  a  celebration  being  given  me  —  how  will  the 
papers  talk  of  it  ?  I  felt  that  I  could  bear  well  enough  any  re¬ 
mark,  that  it  was  too  great  a  thing  to  bestow  on  me  ;  but  I 
could  not  bear  that  any  unfavorable  or  unkind  opinion  should 
be  spoken  against  my  native  place  for  so  honoring  me. 

It  was,  therefore,  I  confess,  an  unspeakable  pleasure  to  me 
to  see  soon  that  all  the  newspapers,  great  and  small,  spoke  with 
warm  feeling  of  my  festival  in  my  native  town.  Even  as  soon 
as  I  had  returned  from  the  Guild  Hall  to  the  Bishop’s  house, 
I  heard  the  first  voice,  one  of  the  most  eminent  journals  in 
Copenhagen,  which  had  just  come  by  the  post,  and  brought 
me  a  heart  greeting,  and  had  only  praise  for  my  native  town. 
It  did  me  good,  and  gave  me  peace  of  mind  and  readiness  for 
the  great  part  of  the  celebration  which  yO  awaited  me  during 
me  day  and  evening.  In  “  Dagbladet  ”  of  December  s'xth 
there  read :  — 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


558 

“  State  Councilor  H.  C.  Andersen  enjoys  to-day  a  special 
honor,  since  he  is  presented  in  Odense  with  a  diploma  as 
honorary  citizen  in  that  his  native  town.  It  is  seldom  in  our 
country  that  such  a  distinction  is  given  ;  but  Odense  has  good 
reason  to  honor  the  poor  workingman’s  son  who  went  out  from 
her,  has  won  for  himself  a  name  which  is  mentioned  with  honor 
far  beyond  the  narrow  boundaries  of  his  father-land,  and  so  in 
return  he  has  honored  his  country  and  the  town  where  he  was 
born.  Many,  certainly,  whose  thoughts  to-day  turn  to  the  fes¬ 
tival  at  Odense,  will  receive  a  prominent  place  in  H.  C.  An¬ 
dersen’s  ‘  Story  of  my  Life,’  and  they  send  the  poet  their 
greeting  and  thanks  for  all  that  he  has  done  for  them  and  for 
us  all.” 

With  more  freedom  than  I  had  in  the  morning  I  drove  now 
with  the  committee  of  invitation  to  the  Guild  Hall,  and  I  had 
eyes  for  the  first  time  to  see  the  tasteful  decorations.  The  band 
played  melodies  which  belonged  to  my  songs.  The  Funen 
“County  Times,”  in  its  issue  the  next  day,  gave  an  account 
of  the  celebration,  and  its  report  is  accurate  and  full :  — 

“  In  the  finely  decorated  hall  of  the  Guild  Hall  the  bust  of 
the  honored  guest  was  placed  on  a  pedestal  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  surrounded  by  medallions,  with  the  inscriptions  :  ‘April  2  ' 
(the  poet’s  birthday),  ‘September  4,  1S19’  (the  day  he  ieft 
Odense),  and  ‘  December  6,  1867.’  In  the  afternoon,  at  four 
o’clock,  as  many  men  and  women  of  different  ranks  were  as¬ 
sembled  as  could  find  room  (in  all  250).  The  speaking  opened 
with  some  words  by  the  Burgomaster,  Councilor  of  Justice 
Mourier,  who  gave  the  health  of  his  majesty  the  King,  remind¬ 
ing  them  that  there  was  a  good  old  custom  in  Denmark  of  al 
ways  first  drinking  the  King’s  health  at  every  festive  gathering 
The  following  song  was  then  sung  :  — 

v  ‘  Like  the  swan  flying  back  to  the  place 
Where  the  nest  of  the  baby  bird  lay  ; 

And  its  fellows  had  little  of  grace 

For  the  poor  little  thing  dressed  in  gray  # 

"  ‘  Where  it  dreamed,  lying  hid  all  alone 
In  the  bushes  that  no  one  might  see, 

And,  s'range  among  birds,  made  its  moan, 

And  sighed  like  its  fellows  to  be. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


559 


•“They  knew  not  its  lineage,  nor  recked  they 

That  the  dreaming  had  truth  and  gave  might ; 

*  And  soon  o’er  the  sky’twould  be  winging  its  way, 

In  the  luminous,  musical  swan  flight  : 

rt  *  That  wide  o’er  the  land  in  its  flight  it  should  go. 

And  wider  by  far  should  fly  its  renown, 

Till  all  the  round  world  the  dear  name  should  know, 

And  honor  come  back  to  the  old  native  town  : 

“  *  That  deep  in  all  hearts  its  music  should  chime, 

In  the  great  and  the  small  holding  sway, 

Since  always  in  memory  it  kept  close  the  time 
When  it  too  was  little  and  gray. 

u  { So  thanks  to  thee,  singer  of  magical  art, 

For  thy  visit  to  childhood’s  old  home  ; 

It  is  proud  of  its  son,  and  forth  from  each  heart 
The  musical  thanksgivings  come/ 

“Mr.  Petersen  said,  —  ‘About  fifty  years  ago  a  poor  boy  left 
his  native  town  to  begin  the  struggle  of  life.  His  departure 
was  quiet  and  unnoticed,  for  no  one  knew  him  or  thought  any¬ 
thing  of  him.  Two  women,  indeed,  his  mother  and  grand¬ 
mother,  accompanied  him  a  little  way  on  the  road,  but  their 
wishes  and  prayers  followed  him  the  whole  journey.  His  first 
object  was  to  reach  the  capital :  there  would  he  struggle  to  attain 
the  great  end  of  his  life.  In  the  great  city  he  stood  alone  with¬ 
out  friends  or  kinsmen  ;  but  he  began  his  struggle  and  he  had 
in  it  two  powerful  supports  :  trust  in  Providence,  that  He  would 
help  him  as  there  was  need,  and  confidence  in  his  own  strength. 
The  struggle  was  hard  and  bitter,  and  brought  with  it  many 
wants  ;  but  his  strong  will  persistently  carried  him  forward,  and 
just  this  struggle  and  this  want  gave  birth  to  his  wonderful 
fancy  with  its  exuberance  and  its  lofty  flight.  The  boy  has 
become  a  man  and  stands  to-day  in  the  midst  of  us ;  his  name 
has  in  these  latter  davs  been  upon  all  men’s  lips.  Now  has 
the  conflict  issued  in  victory  :  he  stands  here  honored  by  kings 
and  princes,  but  what  is  more,  honored  and  esteemed  by  his 
fellow-citizens.  As  a  poor  testimony  to  this,  the  Common 
Council  has  elected  him  an  honorary  citizen  of  his  native  town, 
and  has  thereby  gratified  a  cherished  wish  which  grew  out  of 
an  unusual  harmony  <5f  feeling  in  the  agreement  to  take  this 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


560 

step,  and  the  strong  desire  which  has  shown  itself  on  the  pa*i 
of  all  to  take  part  in  the  festival  in  his  honor,  but  which,  alas  ! 
all  could  not  share.  But,  in  the  name  of  all,  the  speaker  would 
thank  the  honored  guest  for  the  warm,  living  words  whicb 
came  crowding  from  his  heart,  and  thank  him  for  words  which 
he  had  sent  forth  into  the  world,  and  for  all  that  he  had  given 
his  father-land.  However  much  he  had  wandered,  he  never 
had  forgotten  that ,  —  never  had  forgotten  he  was  a  Dane,  and 
that  his  cradle  stood  here  in  our  town.  So  then  a  viva  for 
our  honorary  citizen,  the  poet  Hans  Christian  Andersen.’ 
(Tumultuous  applause.) 

“  State  Councillor  H.  C.  Andersen  thanked  them,  deeply 
affected.  He  had  come  back  here  willingly  to  think  upon  the 
days  of  his  childhood  and  the  memories  that  flowed  from  them. 
Three  memories  especially  centred  about  this  hall  in  his  mind. 
The  first  of  coming  as  a  boy  and  seeing  a  wax  figure  exhibi¬ 
tion  ;  he  was  greatly  astonished  then  at  seeing  the  kings  and 
princes  and  the  world’s  celebrated  men  represented.  Another 
time  he  saw  a  festival  in  the  hall ;  an  old  town  musician  took 
him  to  see  it.  It  was  a  celebration  of  the  King’s  birthday,  and 
from  the  orchestra  in  the  brightly  illuminated  hall  he  looked 
out  upon  the  dancers,  among  whom  he  recognized  several'.  The 
third  reminiscence  dated  from  this  day,  when  he  himself  now 
stood  as  a  guest  in  the  hall,  and  met  with  so  much  unexpected 
cordiality.  It  all  came  to  him  as  a  wonder  story  ;  but  he  had 
indeed  learned  that  life  itself  is  the  most  beautiful  wonder  story. 

“  After  a  double  quartette  had  sung  the  song,  ‘  In  Denmark 
was  I  born  :  there  have  I  my  home,’  Bishop  Engelstoft  took  up 
his  parable  :  — 

“  ‘  The  poet’s  charming  words  in  this  song,  and  many  other 
of  his  pieces,  carry  our  thoughts  out  from  this  assembly  into 
the  greater  public  of  which  our  circle  is  only  a  little  part :  but 
both  have  the  same  stamp,  the  spirit  which  gives  a  unity  with¬ 
out  and  within.  All  history  teaches  that  it  is  the  spirit  which 
is  the  chief  spring  in  the  lives  of  people  as  well  as  of  individ¬ 
uals.  It  was  just  this  spirit  which  bore  Denmark’s  name  into 
the  world  and  gave  it  honor,  from  Tycho  Brahe  and  Ole 
Romer  down  to  H.  C.  Orsted,  from  Holberg  to  the  great 
man  of  our  day.  This  spirit  gave  the  little  nation  strength  to 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


56l 

bear  heavy  fate  and  to  stand  against  assaults  made  on  its  very 
existence,  power  to  hold  out  and  to  join  again  what  had  been 
separated  by  violence,  but  stamped  with  the  same  spirit  of  the 
nation.  So  in  peaceful  contests  this  spirit  had  given  Denmark 
honor,  and  confidence  gave  promise  of  a  blessing  which  this 
spirit  would  bring  about  assuredly  in  the  time  to  come  ;  and 
when  we  remember  with  thankfulness  all  the  mighty  power  of 
a  national  spirit,  let  us  wish  then  that  our  father-land  may  find 
many  honored  sons  who  will  offer  all  their  strength  and  fire  to 
this  end.  Fortune  and  blessing  abide  on  old  Denmark.’ 

“  State  Councilor  Koit  wished  to  propose  a  health  to  H.  C. 
Andersen’s  wife.  Ah,  he  saw  very  well  that  people  opened 
their  eyes,  that  they  knew  quite  positively  that  Andersen  was 
not  married.  But  he  had  for  all  that  a  wife.  Was  it  asked  how 
she  looked  ?  On  one  side  it  might  be  very  correctly  answered 
that  she  only  existed  in  his  poetic  fancy  ;  on  the  other,  that  she 
was  in  a  thousand,  yes  a  hundred  thousand  specimens,  and 
every  lawful  husband  believes  that  he  is  in  possession  of  the 
one  right  person.  That  is  quite  true,  because  all  the  wives 
say  with  Andersen  in  his  story,  —  ‘  What  the  good-man  does  is 
sure  to  be  right !  ’  How  often  does  it  not  happen  to  us,  as  in 
the  Wonder  Story,  that  we  barter  a  good  horse  away  and  at  last 
come  home  to  the  mother  with  a  bag  of  rotten  apples,  and  get 
the  promise  of  being  called  blockhead  when  we  shall  get 
home  ;  but  the  mother  proves  to  be  good,  and  looks  at  the  best 
of  the  thing.  So  a  health  for  Andersen’s  wife,  —  for  her  who 
creates  a  paradise  for  us  all  our  life  long  and  grows  always 
more  beautiful. 

“  H.  C.  Andersen  returned  thanks  for  the  health,  remind¬ 
ing  them  of  the  old-fashioned  custom  that  wreathed  the  cup 
with  flowers  :  so  he  could  wish  to  adorn  his  books  with  a 
wreath,  and  let  the  leaves  bear  the  names  of  all  the  noble 
women  who  were  present. 

“  Colonel  Vanpell  then  spoke  :  ‘  It  is  quite  true,  as  the 

previous  speaker  has  said,  that  a  beautiful  rose  garland  of 
women  surrounds  our  honored  guest ;  but  what  shall  one  say 
of  the  children,  for  there  are  many  of  them  here.  We  soldiers 
think  a  good  deal  of  children,  ana  they  think  a  good  deal  of 
vs.  We  see  that  when  we  come  tc  our  quarters.  But  An- 


TUB  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


562 

dersen’s  children  we  love  most  of  all  ;  they  always  seem  tc 
lead  us  the  right  way.  When  we  knew  not  how  far  we  dared 
go,  then  Andersen  sang :  “  I  cannot  stay  ;  I  have  no  rest ;  I 
must  away  to  the  war.”  He  called  on  us ;  he  called  on 
friends  in  :he  North,  while  he  sang, — 

“  One  folk  are  we,  of  Scandinavian  name.” 

Andersen  is  of  Palnatoke’s  kin  from  the  same  isle,  and  he 
shows  us  what  we  should  fight  for.  He  tells  us  of  “  Holger 
the  Dane  ;  ”  yes,  he  is  our  travelling  companion  to  the  end. 
There  is  joy  when  he  sends  us  a  Christmas  greeting ;  as  the 
child  opens  a  box  with  tin  soldiers,  so  do  we  open  every  new 
book,  sure  to  find  in  it  a  new  “Tin  Soldier.”  There  is  a  joy 
every  time  there  is  a  “  Barselstue  ” 1  at  H.  C.  Andersen’s 
house ;  and  so  a  health  to  his  children  who  are  already  born, 
and  to  those  yet  to  come  ?  ’ 

“  The  School  Inspector  Moller  desired  to  bring  the  chil¬ 
dren’s  thanks  to  the  poet.  The  speaker  gave  this  offering,  both 
because  he  was  himself  a  great  admirer  of  Andersen’s  stories, 
and  because  he  was  naturally  a  representative  of  the  children. 
He  had  been  going  about  this  year  among  the  schools,  and 
had  told  the  sixteen  hundred  children  who  came  under  his  in¬ 
spection  about  the  man  whom  we  honor  to-day.  He  had 
told  them  that  this  man  had  sat  upon  the  same  school  bench 
as  they,  and  he  had  advised  them  to  follow  his  illustrious 
example.  In  the  children’s  name  the  speaker  gave  thanks, 
because  Andersen  had  shown  us  what  faith  was,  and  taught  • 
us  to  see  the  spirit  in  nature,  and  the  spirit  in  men’s  lives. 
Our  times  were  skeptical,  and  the  material  held  sway  ;  but  there 
still  could  be  born  a  man  who  told  us  of  ‘  Thumblin^,’  of  the 
‘  Sea-maid, ’  of  ‘  Agnete,’  and  who  through  these  opened  our  ears 
for  the  music  of  nature.  Andersen  had  been  pretty  severe.  He 
had  chastised  affectation,  and  whipped  folly  and  vanity  (which 
the  speaker  demonstrated  by  citing  several  of  Andersen’s  sto¬ 
ries)  ;  but  he  had  told  the  truth  :  he  had  shown  that  nobility 
could  be  hidden  in  poverty  (‘  She  was  good  for  Nothing  ’  and 

1  Referring  to  one  of  Andersen’s  comedies,  suggested  by  a  play  of  Hoi- 
berg’s,  and  based  on  an  old  custom  by  which  one  room  in  the  house  was 
set  apart  as  a  lying-in  chamber,  where  the  new  mother  received  the  con 
gratulations  of  friends. 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


5<>3 

The  Tin  Soldier  ’),  and  therefore  ought  thanks  to  be  given  by 
the  children,  to  whom  he  had  given  the  most  beautiful  gifts  in 
life. 

“  Procurator  Chancellor  Petersen  recited  a  poem  in  Ander¬ 
sen’s  honor,  and  addressed  himself  to  the  poet  as  the  friend  of 
his  youth  and  schoolmate.  He  thanked  him  for  his  cont.in- 
ued  friendship,  and  proposed  again  to  empty  a  glass  to  the 
poet’s  honor. 

“County  Provost  Svitzer  would  turn  his  thoughts  to  that 
which  lies  nearest  to  us.  It  does  our  town  honor  that  Ander¬ 
sen  should  go  forth  from  it,  and  he  is  now  bound  fast  to  us  by 
still  tighter  bonds.  It  is  an  honor  to  the  town  that  it  has 
such  a  man  for  a  citizen ;  but  it  is  also  an  honor  to  the  town 
that  it  has  elected  him  to  that  place  and  that  all  should  come 
to  the  festival,  for  it  showed  that  they  had  a  regard  for  the 
good  and  the  beautiful. ,  It  is  an  honor  to  be  a  citizen  of 
Odense  ;  it  is  always  going  forward  ;  it  does  not  know  what 
standing  still  means.  He  hoped  that  this  progress  might  con¬ 
tinue  in  the  future,  and  this  hope  he  would  express  in  a  viva 
for  Odense’s  citizens. 

“  Then  Andersen  said  he  could  compare  his  life  with  a 
building,  and  he  ventured  then  to  name  two  men,  Collin  and 
H.  C.  Orsted,  who  had  stood  steadfastly  by  him  and  helped 
him  forward.  Now  he  could  say  that  the  building  was  ready, 
and  as  people  were  wont  to  place  a  garland  on  a  building 
when  completed,  his  should  be  a  return  of  thanks  to  the  Com¬ 
mon  Council  and  to  the  Odense  Commonalty,  in  which  he  saw 
with  pleasure  that  not  only  material  things,  but  goodness  and 
beauty  also  blossomed  with  flowers.  He  would  fain  address 
some  chosen  words  to  all  who  had  afforded  him  his  great 
pleasure  this  day,  and  his  thanks  should  be  all  summed  up  in 
a  viva  for  Odense  town. 

“  With  that  the  ceremonies  closed,  and  shortly  after  the 
young  people  began  to  come.  Before  the  dancing  was  begujn, 
the  children  sang  a  welcome  to  the  poet  H.  C.  Andersen  :  — - 

“  ‘  Tliere,  where  the  street  turns  round, 

A  little  house  is  found. 

And  there,  say  the  wise  men, 

Tile  stork  brought  Andersen. 

Ole  came,  the  lively  fellow. 


THE  STORY  OP  MY  LIFE. 


5H 

And  hoisted  his  umbrella  ; 

While  dreams  about  the  baby  flocked, 

His  cradle  the  Nis  gladly  rocked. 

*  *  Here  he  sat  by  the  river  side, 

And  mermaids,  mermen  there  he  spied ; 

And  when  on  the  mossy  bank  he  walked. 

With  Elder  Mother  then  he  talked. 

Christmas  came,  blustering,  raw, 

And  the  Snow-queen  white  he  saw,  — 

Whate’er  it  was  that  charmed  his  heart, 

He  let  us  freely  have  a  part. 

u  1  Thanks  for  every  hour  we’ve  had 
Round  the  table  he  makes  glad. 

The  lamp  burns  bright  while  mother  sews, 

And  father  reads  what  every  one  knows  ; 

Prince  and  Princess,  King  and  Queen, 

Forth  they  come  upon  the  scene  ; 

Dance  the  elves,  the  troll  alarms, 

Tin-  soldiers  stand  and  shoulder  arms. 

**  ‘  With  fairy  shoes  thy  feet  were  shod, 

And  so  in  royal  homes  they  trod  ; 

While  still  thy  name  the  children  know 
Wherever  Tuk  and  Ida  go. 

Take,  thou  poet  of  the  children’s  play. 

Take  the  youngsters’  thanks  to-day  ; 

We  cannot  grasp  with  a  very  big  hand, 

So  take  our  both  as  here  we  stand.’ 

“  In  the  course  of  the  evening  II.  C.  Andersen  gave  the  per- 
ions  present  great  pleasure  by  reading  two  of  his  stories. 
During  the  dancing  there  was  received  from  his  majesty  the 
King  the  telegram  given  below,  which  was  received  with  un¬ 
bounded  applause. 

.“  A  great  torch-light  procession,  in  which  all  the  corporations 
of  the  town  with  their  colors  took  part,  and  which  numbered 
a  hundred  and  fifty  torches,  marched  about  eight  o’clock  to 
the  Guild  Hall,  and  brought  H.  C.  Andersen  the  congratula¬ 
tions  of  the  united  craftsmen  on  the  occasion  of  his  nomina¬ 
tion  to  honorary  citizenship  in  our  town,  and  expressed  the 
hope  that  for  many  a  year  he  might  labor  for  his  own  pros¬ 
perity  and  for  the  honor  of  old  Denmark.  H.  C.  Andersen 
.begged  the  deputation  to  convey  to  the  gathering  a  hearty 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE.  565 

greeting  and  thanks  from  him  for  all  the  honor  they  had 
shown  him.  In  his  childhood  it  had  been  predicted,  he  said, 
that  his  native  place  would  one  day  be  illuminated  in  his 
honor,  and  when  he  now  cast  a  glance  over  the  square  and 
saw  the  many  burning  torches,  he  must  perforce  see  in  this 
the  fulfillment  of  the  prediction.  The  deputation  then  handed 
him  the  song  which  the  workmen  wished  to  sing  to  him  there 
in  the  square. 

“  After  it  had  been  sung  there  was  a  long  live  the  honored 
guest  and  poet !  which  was  followed  by  a  prolonged  hurra. 
At  that  H.  C.  Andersen  stepped  forward  to  an  open  window 
and  thanked  the  workmen  for  the  honor  they  had  shown  him, 
saying  that  this  day  and  evening  would  hold  their  place  as  the 
dearest  recollections  of  his  life.  Thereupon  the  torches  were 
all  thrown  in  a  heap  on  the  pavement  and  the  procession  dis¬ 
banded. 

“  During  the  festivities  several  congratulatory  telegrams 
came  to  Andersen.  Among  them  we  should  especially  men¬ 
tion  the  following :  —  , 

“  From  his  majesty  the  King :  ‘  To  the  distinction  shown 
you  to-day  by  the  citizens  of  your  native  town,  I  and  my 
family  add  our  sincere  congratulations.  Christian  Rex.’ 

“  From  the  seniory  of  the  Students’  Association :  ‘  The  Stu¬ 
dents’  Association  sends  its  greeting  to  the  poet  H.  C.  Ander¬ 
sen  on  his  day  of  honor,  with  thanks  for  the  past  and  best 
wishes  for  the  future.’ 

‘‘From  Slagelse :  ‘The  Slagelse  Workingmen’s  Union, 
which  holds  a  special  meeting  this  evening  in  honor  of  the 
distinguished  men  who  graduated  from  Slagelse  Latin  School, 
sends  you,  dear  Hon.  State  Councilor,  as  one  of  those,  the 
heartiest  and  most  affectionate  greeting.’  ” 

Such ‘was  the  pleasure  throughout  the  country  over  my  rare 
and  beautiful  festival  ;  and  needs  must  there  have  been  in 
my  heart  profound  feelings  and  varying  movements.  How 
could  people  dream  that  so  much  should  be  granted  me  — 
that  was  the  thought  which  constantly  pressed  upon  me  and 
cast  a  shadow  over  all  the  splendor  and  pleasure,  which  I 
ought  to  have  been  enjoying  every  moment.  Then  came  the 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


566 

first  telegram,  from  the  Students’  Association,  lifting  my  heath 
I  saw  that  the  academic  youth  shared  my  pleasure  and  did 
not  envy  me  it.  Then  came  a  dispatch  from  a  private  circle 
of  young  students  in  Copenhagen,  then  from  the  association 
at  Slagelse.  It  will  be  remembered  that  I  went  to  school 
there,  and  therebv  was  attached  to  the  town.  Soon  there 
followed  messages  from  congratulatory  friends  in  Aarhuus,  in 
Stege  ;  telegram  after  telegram  came  from  every  quarter.  One 
of  these  was  read  aloud  by  State  Councilor  Koch  ;  it  was  a 
congratulation  from  his  majesty  the  King  and  the  royal 
family.  The  assembly  broke  forth  in  applause  :  “  How  fine  i. 
is  !  how  hearty !  ”  Every  cloud  and  shadow  in  my  soul  van¬ 
ished.  Now  began  the  children’s  part.  An  arm-chair  was 
placed  for  me  in  the  middle  of  the  hall,  and  two  by  two  came 
gayly  dressed  children,  who  danced  in  a  ring  about  me  and 
sang  their  song.  How  happy  I  was,  and  yet  —  up  to  heaven’s 
height  man  dare  not  exalt  himself.  I  should  and  must  feel 
that  I  was  only  a  poor  child  of  humanity  bound  by  earthly 
frailty.  I  suffered  from  a  dreadful  toothache,  which,  with  the 
heat  and  the  excitement  I  was  in,  became  excessive,  but  I 
read  a  wonder  story  for  the  little  friends.  Then  the  deputa¬ 
tion  came  from  the  corporations  of  the  town,  who  with  torches 
and  waving  banners  came  through  the  streets  to  the  Guild 
Hall. 

I  was  to  fulfill  the  prophecy  which  the  old  woman  made 
when  as  a  boy  I  left  my  birthplace,  —  Odense  should  be  illu¬ 
minated  for  me.  I  stepped  to  the  open  window  ;  there  was  a 
blaze  of  light  from  the  torches,  the  place  was  quite  full  of 
people.  They  sang,  and  I  was  overcome  in  my  soul.  I  was 
physically  overcome  indeed,  and  could  not  enjoy  this  summit 
of  fortune  in  my  life.  The  toothache  was  intolerable  ;  the  icy 
air  which  rushed  in  at  the  window  made  it  blaze  up  into  a 
teirible  pain,  and  in  place  of  fully  enjoying  the  good  fortune 
of  these  minutes,  which  never  would  be  repeated,  I  looked  a' 
the  printed  song  to  see  how  many  verses  there  were  to  be 
sung  before  I  could  slip  away  from  the  torture  which  the  cold 
air  sent  through  my  teeth.  It  was  the  pitch  of  suffering ; 
when  the  flames  of  the  torches  piled  together  sank  down,  then 
tn>  pain  decreased.  How  thankful  was  I  to  God.  Gentle 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE 


567 

eves  looked  upon  me  from  all  sides,  every  one  wished  to  speak 
to  me,  to  press  my  hand.  Wearied  out,  I  reached  the  Bish¬ 
op’s  house  and  sought  rest,  but  I  did  not  get  it  until  the 
morning  hour,  so  filled  to  overflowing  was  I. 

I  wro/e  at  once  to  his  majesty  the  King  and  expressed  my 
deeply  felt  thanks  ;  I  wrote  to  the  Students’  Association  and  to 
the  Workingmen’s  Union,  and  now  I  received  many  visits. 
Especially  must  I  mention  an  old  widow  who  as  a  child  had 
been  a  boarder  for  a  short  time  with  my  parents ;  she  wept  for 
gladness  over  my  life’s  career,  and  told  how  she  had  stood  in 
the  evening  with  the  torch-light  procession  on  the  square  and 
seen  the  parade  :  It  was  just  as  it  was  for  the  King  and 
Queen  when  they  were  here.”  Then  she  had  thought  of  my 
parents,  and  upon  me  as  a  little  boy  ;  she  had  talked  about  it 
with  several  old  people  who  stood  by  her  ;  she  had  wept  and 
they  had  wept,  that  the  poor  boy  should  so  turn  out  and  be 
honored  like  a  king. 

In  the  evening  there  was  a  large  company  at  the  Bishop’s 
house,  at  least  a  couple  of  hundred  people.  1  read  a  wonder 
story  to  them,  and  afterward  the  young  people  danced. 

'fhe  day  after  I  went  to  each  of  the  Common  Council,  and 
sought  out  and  found  a  number  of  acquaintances  whom  I  had 
known  as  a  child.  There  was  still  living  one  of  the  poet 
Hans  Christian  Bunkeflod’s  daughters,  Susanne.  I  went  to  the 
old  house  where  I  had  passed  my  childhood.  A  picture  of 
this  was  shortly  after  the  festival  given  in  the  “  Illustrated 
Times.”  I  went  to  the  charity  school  where  I  had  learned 
my  lessons  when  I  was  a  little  boy. 

The  Odense  Musical  Society  invited  me  to  a  concert  at  the 
Guild  Hall.  I  was  given  the  place  of  honor.  In  the  “  Funen 
Advertiser,”  the  account  ran  :  — 

“  The  last  public  mark  of  respect  on  the  occasion  of  the 
poet’s  reception  as  an  honorary  citizen  of  Odense  took  place 
on  Saturday  evening  in  the  Guild  Hall  Saloon,  at  the  Musical 
Society’s  first  concert  of  the  season.  The  management  had 
invited  the  poet  to  this  assembly,  and  a  more  fitting  close 
could  not  have  been  thought  of,  nor  could  any  act  have  been 
more  graceful,”  etc.  “  As  many  people  had  crowded  to  the 
concert  as  the  hall  wou'i  contain,  nearly  five  hundred.  At 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


568 

about  eight  o’clock  the  honored  guest  entered,  and  was  rec¬ 
eived  with  a  blast  of  trumpets,  while  the  whole  assemoly 
ose  and  the  chorus  sang  a  welcome  to  the  poet.” 

The  day  before  my  departure  occurred  the  yearly  feast  in 
the  so-called  Lahn’s  Institution  for  Poor  Children,  girls  and 
boys,  who  are  here  educated  and  clothed  until  their  Confirma¬ 
tion.  I  was  among  those  invited.  The  feast  was  for  me  a 
very  significant  knot  that  tied  all  together  in  the  speaking  that 
was  there  done.  Lahn’s  portrait  hung  adorned  with  flowers 
on  the  wall.  Who  was  Lahn  ?  many  asked.  He  was  born  in 
Odense,  a  poor  boy  who  learned  to  sew  gloves,  went  out  into 
the  country  and  sold  them,  and  so  got  to  Hamburg ;  and  the 
Odense  Lahn  gloves  became  soon  an  article  much  inquired 
after.  He  came  to  great  position,  was  a  rich  man,  built  him¬ 
self  a  house  in  Odense  on  Nether  Street,  never  was  married, 
but  did  much  good,  and  when  he  died  he  bequeathed  a  legacy 
for  the  education  and  clothing  of  poor  children  and  gave  his 
house  for  the  Institution.  He  lies  buried  in  the  Virgin’s 
Church  grave-yard  in  Odense.  The  tombstone  says,  “  Here 
lies  Lahn  whose  monument  stands  on  Nether  Street.” 

Upon  the  wall  in  the  school-room  there  hung  another  pic¬ 
ture  by  the  side  of  Lahn’s,  a  portrait  of  an  old  woman;  she 
had  many  years  had  her  little  stand  on  the  street  and  sold 
apples,  but  now  had  been  some  time  dead.  As  a  child  she 
had  until  her  Confirmation  been  an  inmate  of  Lahn’s  Institu¬ 
tion  ;  and  when  she  died  it  was  found  that  by  great  simplicity 
of  life  and  frugality  she  had  hoarded  a  few  hundred  rix-dol- 
lars,  which  she  bequeathed  to  Lahn’s  Institution,  and  so  her 
picture  now  hung  there  by  the  side  of  Lahn’s. 

A  young  and  talented  man,  the  School  Inspector,  Pastor 
Moller,  made  a  speech  to  them  at  the  festival,  and  spoke  of 
all  the  famous  men  and  women  in  Denmark,  concluding  with 
the  words  :  “You  all  know  whose  festival  it  is  that  has  been 
celebrated  here  the  last  few  days.  You  have  seen  how  a  man 
from  our  town  has  been  welcomed  and  honored,  and  he  has 
sat  upon  just  such  a  bench  for  poor  children  as  you  sit  on. 
He  is  here  among  us.”  I  saw  the  eyes  about  me  moist  with 
feeling,  and  then  I  bowed  to  the  company,  and  took  the  hand 
of  some  of  the  mothers,  and  as  I  left  I  heard  several  exclaim. 
“  God  make  him  happy  and  bless  him  !  ” 


THE  STORY  OF  MY  LIFE. 


5&y 

It  was  a  festival  for  Lahn  ;  it  was  a  blessed  one  for  me. 
It  was  as  if  one  sunbearti  after  another  shone  into  my  heart. 
I  could  not  comprehend  it.  In  such  a  moment  one  clings  to 
'God  as  in  the  bitterest  hour  of  sorrow. 

Now  came  the  day  of  departure,  the  eleventh  of  December. 
People  come  crowding  into  the  railway  station,  so  that  it  was 
filled  with  them.  My  lady  friends  brought  me  flowers.  The 
train  came  which  I  was  to  take,  and  it  stopped  only  for  a  few 
minutes.  The  Burgomaster,  Herr  Mourier,  bade  me  good-by. 
I  uttered  my  farewell  ;  the  loud,  repeated  hurras  rang  forth, 
they  were  lost  in  the  air  as  we  moved  away,  but  still  from 
single  groups  of  people  in  the  town  and  near  by  the  shouts 
continued  to  be  sent  up.  Now  first  as  I  sat  quite  alone,  did 
there  seem  to  rise  into  one  great  account  all  the  honor,  glad¬ 
ness,  and  glory  which  had  been  given  me  by  God  in  my 
native  town. 

The  greatest,  the  highest  blessing  I  could  attain  was  now 
mine.  Now  for  the  first  time  could  I  fully  and  devoutly 
thank  my  God  and  pray,  — 

“  Leave  me  not  when  the  days  of  trial  come.” 

Copenhagen,  March  29,  1869. 


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